#advisory circle

[divinekangaroo]

I’m reading the scripts for Yes Minister for attempted political inspiration and can’t stop imagining the culture shock of Tommy’s first few months in office.

[taffydragonblog]

I thought I had heard something similar to this before

Now I remember

[yage-bejing]

The Belbury Circle's 2017 album Outward Journeys .

[radiophd]

the advisory circle -- everyday science

[beckwritesif]

The vast stretches of lone trees and wild grass of the rural countryside lures the ego overboard, pulling consciousness off course into addiction, delusion and seduction’s disintegrating madness. You barely pull yourself home from there every evening, the sun telling your time, the birds your weather forecast. One day you might not return home at all.

From the Mud is a Midwest gothic inspired horror set in a solitary countryside occupied only by two small towns and stretches of untamed nature. You play a troubled cowboy/girl/puncher who‘s ground deep into a maddening, repetitive routine that a string of deaths suddenly upends. The sheriff of the neighboring town along with a driven journalist and an old friend whose bridge you’ve long since burnt comes to town having heard the news. As you’re hunting for the culprit and running from yourself, your quiet life on the ranch is disturbed, forcing you to keep your cards close and choose your company carefully. But the most pressing matter proves to be whether you can trust your own mind.

From the Mud

☆ Interactive fictional psychological horror written in choice script

Features

Play as either a man, woman, or other

Choose your appearance from overall features to minor details

Experience nuanced romance as either straight, gay, or bi, or forgo romance altogether

Choose whether you’re religious or not in an overly christian rural town

Experience the world react differently towards you depending on who you identify as

Get wrapped up in the chaos to solve the mystery of several murders

Lose touch with reality and slowly question everything around you

Remember: you have to choose to get better

Reject the possibility of unnatural forces at play, or believe

Rot in a jail cell

Ride a horse!

Play a game mostly not driven by numbered stats but meaningful actions and a fuck ton of trackers

Demo! | pinterest

Advisory for the story so far: death, gore, profanity

Basics about some of the important RO characters and other below

The Sheriff ☆ Zachariah “Zach” Mallory ☆ a man in his mid thirties

Sheriff Mallory works from his office in Two Rocks, and though his occupation means working closely with other people and seeing to their needs, it would be indolent to describe him as being good with people. At all. Being abrasive and ill-natured, the man does, however, suit the role of authority well. When the angry crease on his forehead soften, you might find there is something else within his tired eyes.

The sheriff has dark brown, chin-length hair and a matching little effort short beard. His sand-colored skin is sun-kissed from being outside, the circles under his eyes almost a purple kind of shade. Under a heavy set of brows sits a pair of dark blue, almost stormy gray eyes. Standing at an imposing height, Mallory is nigh refused anything, and can’t be forced to wear the ugly uniform his rank requires. Instead, he sports a simple white fitted t-shirt and a pair of well-loved denim jeans.

The Journalist ☆ Candy Tillman ☆ a woman in her early thirties

Working for the local news station in Two Rocks, Ms. Tillman has through work experience and excellent mentoring from her predessessor become a hound chasing stories and truths. She is both idealistic and romanticizing (that which shouldn’t), and yet entirely unsusceptable to bullshit. When her facade falters who will accept her then?

The woman with the sweetest name has blonde hair that falls to the middle of her shoulder blades, which she loves to blowout. Her tan skin is contoured by a natural style of makeup, her small, light blue eyes painted. Candy is average height, reaching taller stature with her go-to minimalist pumps. The journalist prefers simple, feminine silhouttes of clothing, keeping up with the times.

The Best Friend ☆ Blythe Abel Goodwin ☆ a woman in her mid twenties

Blythe is your best friend who you grew up with in Ashley and who stuck around when everyone left, though you know she would’ve loved to leave just as much as you once did. In response to the death of her dreams and the narrow-minded opinions of the general inhabitation of the area, she has defiantly become a person of unique and unpredictable character. You’ve known each other through thick and thin, but is there a side to her yet to be discovered?

Your childhood friend is a contrast-filled woman just under average height. Long, black, cascading hair falls from her head down to her mid-back. Choppily home-cut bangs frame her small face. Her fair skin turns rosy in the cold. Blythe’s almond eyes that are sometimes obscured by a pair of reading glasses, are hazel. She wears whatever the fuck she wants.

The Colleague ☆ Ford Wiley Mallory ☆ a man in his early twenties

Ford Wiley is the younger half-brother of Sheriff Mallory and your colleague on the ranch. Working there only half-time, the younger Mallory is dedicated and driven only in the field of his passion; music. His band has only ever played at the local bar, though. Reserved and perhaps somewhat more thin-skinned than most living out on the countryside, Wiley makes do with refreshing optimism. Whether this optimism is genuine or fabricated is yet to be revealed.

Your part-time cowboy coworker has long, wavy brown hair that he sometimes makes an effort to style, and otherwise lets it live its own life. He and his half-brother have little in common, appearance included; Wiley has olive skin covered in freckles. His eyes are dark brown, and he is of average height. The musician’s clothes consist of unwanted (by himself) hand-me-downs from Zachariah and ill-gotten items.

The Old Friend ☆ Sawyer “Saw” Brennan ☆ a gender selectable person in their late twenties (m/f)

You grew up with Sawyer along with Blythe, and the three of you braved your childhood and youth in this godforsaken place for years. But they left when things got hardest, and you haven’t been able to get past it even after all these years. Over the years Sawyer has been away they’ve grown into a person you barely know anymore, and you struggle with their sudden return. Will you be able to understand and forgive them for leaving?

Sawyer has inky brown curly hair, worn long (f) or short (m) and loose, carefully taken care of and styled. They have warm brown skin and sharp eyes to match. Your old friend is tall, fitting their frame into oversized graphic t-shirts and either color matched sweats or baggy jeans.

My intentions with this game: It is not supposed to be a beautiful story, it is supposed to be ugly. Writing this game in the way I am is my taking a step away from perfection and seeing where my unpolished writing takes the story. I have been ruled by fear of inadequacy and a desire for ‘perfect timing’ long enough. If I continue to wait for the ‘right moment’ to create, I will end up not creating at all. My only desire now is to simply create, and continue doing so until I have something to show for it.

Story is written and coded by me

Credits to Cole Meanor for the beautiful photography done for the headers!

[reasonsforhope]

"After 50 years of contemplating an airport for Pickering, Ont., the Canadian government will instead use the land to expand Rouge Urban National Park.

Rouge National Urban Park will grow by thousands of hectares, preserving part of a wildlife corridor connecting Lake Ontario to protected land northeast of Toronto.

The expansion news came in twin announcements from the federal government Monday as Transport Canada abandons a plan to build an airport next to the park in Pickering, Ont., east of Toronto. For the last 50 years, Canada has planned to construct the airport on an expanse of agricultural land and green space known as the Pickering Lands — now, most of it will be transferred to Parks Canada instead.

Adding most of the land to the park is a win for conservationists, Indigenous leaders and farmers who have been pushing for decades for the Pickering airport plan to be cancelled. It also guarantees protection for a huge slice of green space in a region that’s also been sought for urban development. 

Mississaugas of Scugog Island First Nation Chief Kelly LaRocca — whose community is one of 10 in Rouge’s Indigenous advisory circle and has long opposed the Pickering airport — said she hopes the move marks the start of a better path forward. That could include co-management of the land and a First Nation Guardians program, she said in a press release, adding that her nation has asked Parks Canada to work with First Nations to develop a harvesting agreement for the park.

“The region’s natural and agricultural lands are disappearing at an alarming rate,” she said. “This land is a precious resource that can never be replaced.” ...

As Transport Canada left the plan in limbo for decades, the Pickering Lands have remained undeveloped, a rare pocket of biodiversity close to Toronto. The majority of the land is now within Ontario’s Greenbelt, which the province created in 2005...

Up until now, Transport Canada held onto about 3,500 hectares in case it needed to build the Pickering airport. But its choice to axe the airport plan entirely means the majority of that land  — including the areas with the highest conservation value — will now be transferred to Parks Canada. The federal government’s intent is for the land to be added to Rouge National Urban Park, pending consultation with Indigenous communities...

The Pickering Lands are part of the last intact wildlife corridor between Lake Ontario and the Oak Ridges Moraine, a protected rocky ridge to the north that’s also part of the Greenbelt. The corridor allows wildlife — including species at risk — to move between habitats, giving them a stronger chance of survival. The lands are directly beside the existing Rouge National Urban Park, and connected to another part of the Greenbelt to the south known as the Duffins Rouge Agricultural Preserve."

-via The Narwhal, January 27, 2025

[inlovewithpandora]

ꕥ — Found Someone Better / A New Tide

Genre — Chapter four: Part One

Artists — Tonowari x fem!avatar!reader

Lyrics — You’re finally adjusting to your new life among the Metkayina and your relationship with Tonowari is progressing into something more. While Tonowari is out in the village, fulfilling his Olo’eyktan duties, he hears some of his warriors talking about you when the topic of mating season comes up, which catches his attention.

Music Advisory — Pre-Atwow, implied timeskip, fluff, comfort, implied courting/courtship, act of courting [acts of service], kissing, mentions of Tonowari’s past relationship, emotional moment, Olo’eyktan!Tonowari, jealous!Tonowari, mention of mating season, secret relationship trope, featuring Ralak [Tonowari’s right hand man/best friend]

Notes — Reader and Tonowari’s relationship is slightly sped up [between chapter three and four] due to the length of series and that I believe the Na’vi (especially a traditional man like Tonowari) wouldn’t take longer than a few months before starting the courting process.

Duration — 5.2k

Index — Kaltxì - Hello・Syulang - Flower

Words From Artist — Chapter four is finally here!! I hope yall enjoy seeing this side of Reader and Tonowari’s relationship! I hope y’all enjoy and always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions!

Current Platforms — Chapter One ・Chapter Two・Chapter Three・Series M.list ・Series Taglist・Main M.list

After months of living in Awa’atlu you’ve finally found your place in the clan, becoming a healer. When you lived in the forest you were a healer, working under Mo’at and learning all her ways and techniques. It’s a position you excel in and you were tired of doing odd tasks around the island so you spoke to the head healer and showed her your skills and after that she was happy to allow you a place in the healing pod.

You’ve learned to navigate the island’s resources, gathering medicinal herbs and understanding the local flora. Some flora is similar to what was back in the forest while other plants were completely different which sparked your interest. The knowledge you gained from Mo’at feels even more valuable here, as you adapt her teachings to the unique plants of Awa’atlu. You can now identify the subtle differences in the herbs and their uses, finding satisfaction in the skills you’ve obtained.

Your relationships with the villagers have grown since you first arrived, the initial curiosity that surrounded your arrival has shifted into friendship, with most members of the clan seeking your advice and sharing their stories. Even though it took a while for most of the clan to come around, Padma, who is now your best friend, is one person you’ve always been able to lean on. The kindness she showed you from the very beginning has helped you feel at home in Awa’atlu and it also helped show the clan that you were a good person and that they could trust you.

In addition to Padma, you’ve also grown close to other women in the clan. They’ve welcomed you into their circles. The camaraderie you share during communal activities, whether it’s preparing meals or participating in rituals, it has created a sense of sisterhood, something you’ve always wished for. Through all these connections, you find strength and support, enriching your experience in Awa’atlu.

While you’re sitting in your mauri, allowing the sun to shine its light into your home as you get ready for the day and start your duties, you can hear a familiar set of footsteps come through the entryway, causing a blush to creep onto your face. “Kaltxì, syulang.” The nickname ‘Flower’ was bestowed upon you a little after your relationship with the Olo’eyktan started to blossom. He thought it was perfect for you after he took you on a walk in the jungle and you couldn’t help but stop at almost every flora to take a whiff of its natural scent and focus on the beauty it held.

Tonowari's voice makes his presence known and soon after you hear a loud thud, making you slightly jump at the unexpected sound. When you turn around to see where the sound came from you see him standing next to a net full of descaled and fileted fish with a smile on his face, making a grin tug at your lips from yet another one of his gifts. You can always see the effort he puts into delivering these packages, whether it’s fish or some sort of meat from an animal that roams in the jungle he always makes sure it’s cleaned, skinned, and cut so all you have to worry about is taking them out of their leaf wrappings and cooking them anyway you see fit. “Another? I thought I told you I could hunt for myself. You don’t have to keep bringing me food.”

“Yes, you did tell me but why would I allow you to when you have a man that is fully capable of taking care of that for you.” Tonowari walks up to you, still wearing his bright smile while his hands rest on your hips once he’s in front of you, making the blush that’s rising on your cheeks even more apparent. “Plus, when I bring them to you it allows me to see the most beautiful woman in the village before I start my morning rounds.”

Tonowari knows exactly the words to use to make you feel swoon, his compliments always make your smile widen, making you feel like the luckiest woman on the planet to have such a loving and kind man. “Mmm, well who am I to deny you from that?” There’s an undertone of playfulness and affection in your tone while you speak and wrap your arms around Tonowari’s neck, allowing you the perfect opportunity to press your lips upon his. The Metkayina wasn’t expecting a kiss but he definitely isn’t mad at it. It's clear that his thoughtfulness and the fact he can provide is noticed by you and he can’t help but feel a sense of pride.

As you pull away from after the kiss, a playful glint shines in Tonowari’s eyes, and the world around you feels a little brighter. The connection you two share has grown effortlessly since the moment you shared on the beach. Since then you both have been spending more time together, going on dates, exchanging gifts, and learning more about each other in deeper ways. Since deciding to explore the potential of your relationship, both of you have prioritized open communication about your feelings. You both wanted to ensure that you were on the same page regarding how things were progressing and to avoid any sense of rushing into the next phase. After a few months, it became clear that you and Tonowari were on the brink of something deeper—courtship.

When the topic came up it felt natural and exciting but you were also nervous. The scars from your past marriage were still fresh and you didn’t want to deal with the same hurt and mistreatment again but you know that Tonowari aren’t your ex-mates, you know that he is so much different than them so it didn’t take too much thought before you agreed with Tonowari that courting was the right choice for your relationship.

“Alright, my mighty hunter.” You say with a teasing lilt, stepping a little bit closer to him while moving one of your hands and placing it on his shoulder. “How about I finish getting ready while you get the fish out of the walkway and into the cooking area? I don’t want to trip over them.”

Tonowari lets out a soft laugh, a hint of sheepishness in his expression as he glances down at the nets of fish he’d dropped right in front of the entryway instead of somewhere out of the way. “I suppose I was too focused on you to think about where I was putting them.” He admits, shaking his head slightly.

With a nod of determination Tonowari separates from you and allows you to finish your routine as he begins to move the fish. You can’t help but admire the sight of him lifting the heavy net, watching the muscles in his arms and back flex as he picks it up and walk it over to another area of the mauri. His strength and charm makes your heart flutter and makes you appreciate that you can have these small moments with him.

As Tonowari bends down to lower the fish in the area you want them to be in, your eyes catch a glimpse of something on his back. A thin dark line carved into his skin, a wound that looks fresh, meaning it could be causing him pain. “‘Wari,” you walk up to him and get a closer look, your voice laced with worry while you inspect the wound, gently running your finger over it. “What happened to your back?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He replies dismissively while he stands straight up and shifts his weight in the process, meaning it’s not ‘nothing’ like he claims it to be.

“It’s definitely something, Tonowari.” Your healer instincts kick in and you walk over to your herbs and grab a salve and a liquid that will act as a disinfectant so the wound doesn’t become infected. “I can tell you're in pain, you must let me take a look at it.” At first, Tonowari wants to tell you that it’s fine and he’ll just patch it up later but he allows you to take a look, knowing you’ll take better care of it than he will. You bring over a wooden stool for him to sit on and you start working on him, cleaning off the droplets of dried blood before pouring a few drops of disinfectant. “How did you get this?”

“Accident from hunting,” He explains, trying to brush it off since it isn’t a big deal to him. “I was more focused on the catch than what was around me.”

A frown casts upon your face at how Tonowari just ignores his wounds and swallows the pain. “Well, you need to be more careful. You shouldn’t ignore wounds, even if they are small.”

Tonowari's expression relaxes as he feels your fingers across his back, a hint of admiration comes across his face, feeling grateful that he has someone in life that takes care of him again. "You always worry too much about me."

"It's my job," you reply playfully, but your tone is serious. "And I care about you."

“I know you do,” The Olo’eyktan murmurs, his gaze softening as he glances back at you, his usual stoic demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable. As you tend to his wound, Tonowari’s mind begins to drift, memories of Ronal slipping through his thoughts like the gentle pull of the tide. She’d always been the one to patch him up after his hunting or sparring accidents, her hands steady and sure, her voice lightly scolding him for being reckless. She’d always tell him that his strength didn’t mean he could ignore his injuries, and despite his grumbling, he’d let her care for him, feeling both humbled and cherished in those moments.

Now, as he feels the same careful touch in your hands and hears the same gentle concern in your voice, a pang of bittersweet longing stirs within him. It’s different with you, of course, but he realizes he’s missed this feeling of being looked after, having someone who sees past his strength to the person beneath. In some quiet, comforting way, your presence eases a part of him he thought he’d long buried, reminding him of the warmth he once felt with his widow.

As you finish dressing Tonowari’s wound, you notice that his gaze has drifted somewhere distant, a shadow passing over his usually calm expression. His expression is filled with something you can’t quite name—grief, maybe, or longing, like he’s carrying a memory too heavy to put into words. “‘Wari,” you say softly, catching his attention. “Is something on your mind?” You keep your hand on his shoulder, hoping to offer whatever comfort you can.

Tonowari hesitates, looking at you with an intensity that suggests he’s debating whether to answer. You and him haven’t talked much about your past marriages. Both of you are still hesitant to discuss those parts of your lives, and neither of you want to push the other to share before they’re ready. You both agreed early on to open up when the time feels right. Tonowari has only shared little details here and there about Ronal, he mentions her from time to time but it's usually quick and he breezes over it, not wanting to stay on the topic for too long or his emotions will get the best of him. He’s thought about having a full discussion about her with you before but he always chickens out, not wanting to be vulnerable in front of you but he also doesn't want to continue keeping you in the dark about his feelings.

After a long moment, he sighs, glancing away as though the words are easier to say to the air than to you. “My mate,” he says finally, his voice rougher than usual. “Ronal.” He looks down, his jaw tight, trying to hold himself together to tell you the story as emotions resurface in his heart. “She was… everything to me. Strong, kind, stubborn as the sea,” he continues, a small bittersweet smile tugging at his lips, memories of her reeling in his mind from the years they shared as a mated pair. “She always looked after me, kept me in line when I needed it.”

There’s a quiet, aching pause as he gathers himself, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, trying to collect his words and make sure he correctly phrases them based on how he feels in his heart. “She passed when an illness casted over the clan,” he says, his voice full of sorrow when he thinks about how the illness took over her body in a matter of days and soon after he could barely recognize the woman he fell in love with. “She went to help those who were sick, as she always did. She believed it was her duty as Tsahìk to protect others, even when it meant… risking herself in the process.”

You feel a pang in your chest as you watch him speak, seeing the grief he’s been carrying around all this time, a grief that’s only now finding voice. “After she was gone… I didn’t think I’d let anyone take care of me like that again,” he admits, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “I told myself I didn’t need it. But being here with you now, it… reminds me of her.” It was true, even though you and Ronal are different in many ways there are a few similarities he sees in the both of you. The way you care for others, how fiercely you protect those you love, sometimes when he looks at you he feels like he’s seeing pieces of Ronal again.

Your heart aches for him, you know how hard it was for him to share and you’re so glad that he felt brave enough to say how he feels. To show that you're here with him in the moment and are listening, you glide your hand down his arm until you reach his hand. When he feels your hand wrap around his he glances at you and you notice his expression softening from the painful one he once had. Tonowari’s grip tightens around your hand, a silent appreciation of your presence and support.

You take a moment, letting the weight of his confession settle between you before taking a deep breath and speaking, wanting to make sure you say the right things to him, wanting to give him the comfort he needs. “Tonowari,” you say gently, “I’m so glad you had Ronal as a mate, if you hadn’t had all those wonderful years with her you wouldn’t be the amazing man you are today or have your two beautiful children. She took care of you for as long as Eywa allowed and now she watches over you.”

Tonowari’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, and he nods slowly, absorbing your words. “You’re right,” he admits, a soft smile breaking through his sorrow. “Ronal taught me about love, strength and sacrifice.”

“And you carry everything you learned from her with you. You’re not alone on this journey of life, Tonowari. I’m here for you. I want to be that person that cares for you now, the one who always tends to your wounds and keeps you in line if you need it.”

Tonowari’s gaze deepens, reflecting a number of emotions—grief, gratitude, and an unmistakable warmth that radiates from the bond you share. Your words wrap around him like a gentle embrace, showing him that he can be in the present while honoring his past. “I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that,” he admits, his voice steadying, though it remains with hints of emotion.

You squeeze his hand tighter, feeling the strength of his grip and the connection that sparks between you. “It’s the truth,” you reply, your heart swelling with love for this man who has faced so much yet he continues to stand tall. “You’re a great father and a leader, and the love you shared with Ronal doesn’t diminish what we can build together.” You know that Ronal will always be a part of him, she’s the mother of his children and his first true love. Ronal will always be in his heart and you’re completely fine with that but you also want him to know that there is enough room for the love you both now share to grow as well.

A soft smile crosses his lips, the heaviness in his eyes lifting ever so slightly. “And I’m grateful for that, for everything.” He pauses for a moment, his earlier playfulness returning to his demeanor. “Besides, I’d be lost without you keeping me out of trouble.”

“Yes, you definitely need me to keep a close eye on you,” you tease, relief flooding through you as the mood lightens, meaning Tonowari is feeling better than he did a few minutes ago. “Just don’t expect me to let you get away with anything.��

Tonowari chuckles, the sound music to your ears. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, causing you to melt in the process. “Thank you for being my light. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Of course! Just keep bringing me gifts, and we’ll be just fine,” you tease once again, a playful grin stretching across your face as you look up at him. The warmth of the moment fills the small space of your mauri. You rise from your stool and begin to organize the salve and healing items, your fingers dancing over the familiar textures of the herbs and containers.

As you tidy up, sunlight shines brightly through the woven walls, casting a golden glow that warms up the air and takes away the coldness from the early morning breeze. The air is rich with the invigorating scent of fresh herbs, mingling with the distant sounds of Awa’atlu coming to life—laughter and chatter drifting in from outside, a gentle reminder of the community that surrounds you.

“You truly have a gift for healing, both the body and spirit.” Tonowari says in a low tone as he fills the space behind you, his presence a comforting weight as he rests his head in the crook of your neck, along with his warm breath sending a delightful shiver down your spine and his hands wrapping around your waist.

“Well, it’s easy when I have someone worth caring for.” you reply, raising your hand and placing it on his cheek, gently rubbing your thumb against his skin while your smile softens at the sincerity of your own words.

“And you make it impossible for me to focus on my duties. I could stay here with you all day,” he admits, using a playful yet serious tone as he starts to trail soft kisses across your neck, making your stomach flip.

“As tempting as that sounds, I think the clan might have something to say about it.” Thinking of the clan brings a familiar sense of responsibility, reminding you both of the lives that rely on your work. If you both disappeared for the day, when you’re both known to be dedicated to your duties, it would certainly raise suspicions.

Truthfully, the idea of spending the day in the quiet of your home with him is hard to resist, especially with the way his lips are brushing against your neck, causing your body to tingle all over. But you know, despite the attraction of staying close to him, that your duties come first, especially his come first. With a soft sigh, you gently pull away from and turn so you can look into his eyes, giving him a lingering look that speaks of how much you’d rather stay wrapped in his arms.

He chuckles, nodding with a sense of understanding, though his gaze still lingers on you with a quiet intensity. “You’re right, as usual,” he says, his tone resigned yet affectionate. “They need us, and I need to get started on my rounds.” Leaning in, he brushes a gentle kiss against your lips, his touch lingering, wanting one last kiss before you have to part ways. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will,” you assure him firmly, your voice resolute. “And you better do the same. I won’t be patching you up twice in one day.” The banter is light, but beneath it lies a genuine concern for his well-being. You and Tonowari walk out of your home at the same time and you both hold hands for as long as possible before you have to take different paths. You and him exchange loving gazes one more time before the two of you start to split off to different places on the island.

As you start walking towards the heart of the village and making your way to the healing pod, the vibrant colors of the village greet you, alive with the sounds of laughter and the salty breeze of the sea. The sun rises higher, illuminating the faces of your neighbors as they go about their morning tasks, a scene of harmony that fills you with purpose.

—

The early afternoon sun cast long shadows over the village as the Olo’eyktan gathered his warriors for a meeting. Tonowari finished his rounds a while ago, assessing the well-being of his people, making sure the hunters were collecting enough food to feed the clan, that the healers had sufficient supplies, and making sure that the warriors-in-training are up to par. Every so often Tonowari calls a meeting with all his warriors to discuss whatever he deems necessary for them to have knowledge of so currently he’s standing in front of a group of seasoned warriors with a steady and focused expression on his face. The warriors listen intently as he speaks, discussing plans for the coming weeks, the new resources they’ve gathered, and trade strategies with neighboring clans and how they’ll be conducted.

Once the meeting is concluded, the warriors begin to relax, their expressions easing as they fall into conversation. Mating season is approaching for the Metkayina, and the topic quickly shifts to the thrill of potential partners and possible courtships.

One of the younger warriors, a grinning Na’vi with bright eyes, leans in toward the group. “So, do any of you have someone in mind? I hear a few of the women in the northern pods are particularly interested this year.”

Another warrior laughs, elbowing his friend. “The northern pods? Well, I have my eye on someone a little closer.”

The group chuckles, sharing knowing looks and nudges. A third warrior, braver and bolder than his peers, leans back against a nearby tree and crosses his arms with a smirk. “Well, if we’re speaking of those who’ve been catching our eyes, I’d say that the newcomer is quite… intriguing.”

Tonowari’s ears perked up at that, his expression carefully neutral as he listened in on what his subordinates were saying. He feels a tightening in his chest as they continue their conversation and he can’t stop the slight clench of his jaw. He knows exactly who they mean when they say ‘newcomer’ and it’s stirring up a nasty emotion inside the Olo’eyktan at the mention of you.

The warriors exchange looks, some nodding their heads in agreement. “Ah, yes,” one said with a grin. “She has a spirit about her. There’s something different. And she’s been here long enough now, I’d say she’s part of the clan.”

Another warrior chimes in, his tone lighthearted but admiring. “She’s smart, too. Not to mention skilled in healing. I think any one of us would be lucky to court her.”

Tonowari’s fists tighten behind his back, his fingertips pressing into his palms as he fights the urge to respond. The mask of calm he wears, cultivated through years of leadership, is beginning to slip, and his tail flicks in irritation despite his best efforts to remain composed. His ears, trained on the voices of his warriors, catch every casual, careless words they speak about you—the admiration in their voices, the hints of desire, the presumptuous confidence they hold in their tone when they discuss you as if you’re an unclaimed woman waiting to be courted.

Each remark feels like a tiny ember dropped into his chest, sparking a jealousy he’s struggling to contain. He reminds himself of the choice you both made to keep your bond private, to protect the quiet intimacy of what you share, away from the curious eyes of the clan. And yet, in this moment, he feels the weight of that choice bearing down on him. These warriors—his own warriors, those who have fought by his side—speak of you like a prize to be won, an object of competition.

The restraint he shows is as much for himself as it is for them, for he knows that one slip in his expression, one moment of sharpness in his voice, would reveal more than he’s currently prepared to share. But with every laugh, every nudge, and every insinuation, the irritation coils tighter within him, a reminder of how fiercely he feels for you.

A laugh echoes from the group, and one of the warriors, with a mischievous smirk, declares his intent to “try his luck” with you, claiming you might need “someone strong to keep you grounded.” The remark brings a sharp, almost feral look to Tonowari’s eyes, a dangerous edge beneath his calm. He reminds himself—again—that they don’t know, that their casual interest is not meant as an offense. But his jaw clenches, and his heart beats faster, wrestling with the possessive surge that threatens to overtake him.

While the Olo’eyktan is having an emotional debate within himself, Ralak, looks across the circle of warriors, reading the slight tension in his leader’s stance. With a small, knowing smile, Ralak excuses himself from the conversation and walks over to Tonowari.

“Walk with me, Olo’eyktan.” Ralak says, his voice calm but with a hint of humor in his gaze. Tonowari gives him a nod, eager for the chance to leave the warriors’ chatter behind before he blows a fuse. They move a few paces away, leaving the others deep in their discussions about their pursuit for future mates. Once they’re out of earshot, Ralak chuckles softly. “You know, it’s quite amusing to see you like this, Tonowari. You, of all people, should be used to admiration. But hearing it directed at her—now that’s something new.”

Tonowari exhales, the tension easing slightly at Ralak’s teasing tone but not leaving completely. “They speak as if she’s theirs to court,” he mutters, his voice barely concealing his frustration. “As if they have any idea who she is.”

Ralak chuckles, crossing his arms as he leans against a nearby tree. “Of course they don’t know. You’ve kept things quiet. They see her as a woman who’s simply here, one who’s… available. And, well,” he smirks, “you cannot blame them for noticing. She’s a rare presence.” The Metkayina have always been curious of what Na’vi from different parts of Pandora look like so now that they’ve laid eyes on you a new curiosity has grown, what it’s like to be with a woman that's the opposite of them.

Tonowari sighs, a mixture of pride and frustration filling his chest as he knows that men in the clan want you yet you only have eyes for him. “I know that. But to hear them talk so casually, as if they could just… approach her, as if she would give them a second glance…” He shakes his head, fighting the urge to march back and make it clear that you shouldn’t be discussed this way.

“And yet, you’ve kept her hidden. Why?”

Tonowari hesitates, glancing toward the village beyond where he’s spent countless evenings with you. “She and I… we wanted something just for ourselves. Something apart from the clan’s expectations, the constant eyes on us. She wanted time to settle in, to find her place here, without everyone immediately knowing.”

Ralak nods, his expression softening as he begins to understand his reasoning for keeping your relationship under wraps. “Then don’t let their words get under your skin. They speak in ignorance, not knowing what you and her share.” He places a firm hand on Tonowari’s shoulder. “But… I would suggest you think about telling them soon. With mating season approaching, the interest in her will only grow.”

Tonowari grimaces, knowing his friend was right. His warriors are respectful, but also persistent when it comes to finding their potential mate. The last thing he wants is for you to be put in a situation where you feel uncomfortable, or worse, pressured by their advances.

Ralak raises an eyebrow, seeing that the Olo’eyktan is still facing an internal battle with his feelings and thoughts so he decides to give him a few more pieces of sound advice. “Or maybe, you should remind her just how deeply you feel. Make sure she knows she doesn’t need to keep your bond a secret if it causes you both trouble.”

A small smile breaks through Tonowari’s tense expression, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “She knows,” he says softly. “But I’ll admit, it’s hard to hide it when I feel this strongly.”

“Then perhaps a little less hiding wouldn’t hurt. You are the Olo’eyktan, after all. You have every right to make your intentions known.”

Tonowari nods, his resolve strengthening. The quiet, private moments with you are cherished by him when he wants to escape from the demands of his role, but he can’t deny the desire to stand by you openly, to show everyone that you are his.

Tonowari takes a steadying breath, the weight of his friend’s words settling into his mind. He knows now that if he doesn’t make his intentions clear, others will continue to see you as someone they could pursue and that is something he can no longer allow. “Thank you, Ralak,” he says, giving his friend a firm nod. “I’ll speak with her.”

Ralak nods with a smile, satisfied with Tonowari’s decision and glad to see him happy. “Good. She deserves to be seen as the one you’ve chosen, not just another face in the clan.”

As the two men part, Tonowari feels a new sense of purpose filling him. His jealousy sparked something that needs addressing, but more than that, it reminds him of how fully his heart has opened up for you. And if claiming you publicly means drawing a few surprised looks, he’ll gladly accept that challenge.

Previous — Chapter Three・Next — Chapter Four / Part Two

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[aethon-recs]

This Week (x2) in Tomarrymort (1 – 15 March 2025)

We have been absolutely spoiled by how many amazing one-shots we got these last couple of weeks, thanks to both the Necro Tomarrymort Fest and @a-fem-tomarrymort-fest. Check out their AO3 collections—there’s art there as well! 🤍

*

Tomarrymort Completed Fics

The Trouble with Treacle and Tea by cassiopeiassin (M, 18k, complete) 

Tom Riddle is a genius. Once a lowly, mudblood orphan, now the promising star of Cornelius Fudge's political advisory team with a growing circle of loyal, pureblood followers to boot. Everything is on the up. And then he sees Harry Potter, auror-in-training, duel. For Tom, everything always goes wonderfully and absolutely to plan... until it very much doesn't.

*

Tomarrymort One-Shot Must Reads 

One Shot | Grounded by uninspyred

One Shot | death will not do us part but he will bid the devil to ruin by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | Thou art a wickedness by @mosiva

One Shot | obscene worship by @theonceandfuturequeenoftarts

One Shot | The Mortician by @virgil-anon

One Shot | A Sunny Afternoon by @ictyn

One Shot | I Can Only Love You Dead by @blackseatwenty

One Shot | Voldemort's Blue Bedroom by @chaos-bear

One Shot | sakura snow by @rowena-rain

One Shot | Alone with You by lemonchase

One Shot | east end by @1300marshall

One Shot | To be Saved by @cyandenial

One Shot | Draped Over My Altar – Your Blood, My Bones by @hikarimeroperiddle

One Shot | Pushed too far by lemonchase

One Shot | red as blood, black as night by @blackseatwenty

*

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fic

Chapters 9 through 16 of thimble of the banshee by @houndsofheaven

Chapter 15 of Strings of Fate by @solelyseeking

Chapter 26 of What In Me Is Dark, Illumine by @telelli-writes

Chapter 20 of Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse

Chapter 23 of the stars, my destination by @milkandmoon-ao3

Chapter 1 of the devil wears sorority letters by @aitafrog

Chapters 4 and 5 of The Fledgling and the Fawn by @allthesmilesxo

Chapter 6 of Follow where she goes by @mosiva

Chapters 1 and 2 of penance by @cindle-writes

Chapters 18 and 19 of Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 3 of Seaforth by @kippipies

Chapters 21 and 22 of you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria

Chapter 17 of flour power by @kozzieberks

Chapters 16 through 22 of the whole wideness of the night is for you by The_Side

Chapter 1 of Apokatastasis by Lytri 

Chapter 10 of the night is cold in the kingdom by @girl-with-goats

Chapters 13 and 14 of Part Two - To Grow a Heart by @iseliljathedreamer

Chapter 1 of Ouroboros by @allthesmilesxo

Chapter 7 of Dream a little dream (of me) by @cenedrariva

Chapter 15 of Reckless Cartography by @meles-merrivale

Chapter 2 of i see you (you see me) by @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger

Chapters 10 and 11 of Fool me once by @holaolla1

Chapter 7 of Goodbye Evergreen by @v33r00

Chapter 2 of love you down to the bone by @aitafrog

Chapter 2 of Thursday’s Child by interloved

Chapters 4 through 7 of Amortentia by Nati_the_Alien

Chapters 13 and 14 of the taste of autumn upon your lips by @kozzieberks

Chapters 1 through 4 of Hold me as I drown by @smolangryslytherin

Chapters 17 through 18 of The Weight of Gravity by @pagesinmylife 

Chapter 4 of a pound of flesh by @ictyn

*

[merelygifted]

@danskjavlarna

@radioblueheart

@notwiselybuttoowell

Fall then summer then spring then winter.  This unusual series of seasons recalls this other diagram we featured previously. 

Source details and larger version.

From spooky trees to giant trees to that tree that fell in the forest that no one heard: vintage tree imagery.

[taffydragonblog]

The eventide drive home after the Halloween party

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

Please share all you can about Toa the orca calf, I think his story is very important. I don’t know too much but it seems like a case of activists being but in charge rather than actual experts.

Yeah it was a mess from start to finish. Toa was found stranded on the rocks, with witnesses saying the waves had thrown him up there. Already he would have been distressed and had been on his side on a hard surface for a few hours at least.

They got him back in the water and then videos of these interactions started to surface:

No PPE, giving Toa belly rubs and ignoring any formal rescue protocols (if you're trying to refloat a whale, you're not letting them turn upside down)

The sun was going down and DOC wanted people out of the water. Ingrid was on her way and giving instructions to her team. The decision was made to put Toa on a trailer overnight - it's unclear if that was her decision or not but it's clear that, despite not having any rehab facilities in New Zealand, people were determined to rehab this calf and release it back into the wild at any cost.

So they cobbled together a "sea pen" on a boat ramp in a dirty harbour. This is where Toa would eventually die in a few weeks time. Whale Rescue was already selling the story of a miraculous rescue and the plan to "reunite" Toa with his pod. And lying openly that orca calves had been successfully released in the wild before:

He wasn't injured, they said. He was fine. They just had to find his pod now.

When asked reasonable question about where the PPE was for volunteers, Whale Rescue immediately became defensive:

The call for PPE went ignored for about a day while people were in close contact with a sick orca. And the call went out for more "volunteers" aka anyone with a wetsuit. This sparked immediate concerns from the Advisory Group.

Photos like this started showing up - 6 people crowding Toa in a circle, no where for him to go if he wanted a break from people:

The excuse was that Toa needed help swimming. Yet he was swimming okay and avoiding the fences without any obvious issue. And so the habituation began... Despite continuing advice from the Technical Advisory Group - including Loro Parque and SeaWorld, who both have extensive calf raising experience.

"There is no need to have people 24/7 in the water when the animal is able to float and swim alone."

Finally PPE was being used but the habituation and intense contact with Toa continued. Ingrid gave it the okay and other inexperienced members of the public continued to encourage it.

Whale Rescue continued to affirm to the public that they are merely "duplicating natural behaviour" for Toa

And the cultish and unquestioning worship of Ingrid Visser allowed this to continue - note the amount of people in the water for Toa's "massage." They only started wearing PPE when people started questioning it.

If you're wondering what I mean by cultish behaviour see the comment thread below:

They actually believe that Ingrid was communicating with Toa. Because that's what she told them she was doing. And they believed it without question.

When Toa was moved into the freshwater pool due to storms, it got even worse.

This photo was quickly deleted but look how absolutely foul the water is:

There didn't appear to be any sort of filtration or pump system.

At this point volunteers and Ingrid were being fed by donated food from the local pubs, Ingrid was sleeping on site in a donated campervan and the entire community were rallying around trying to "help." Note how close they're all set up to the pool.

Putting him in the pool also made Toa a lot more accessible. Concerns were raised about the stress to the calf and an exclusion zone was agreed upon. Buuut it was immediately disregarded.

7 people! In that tiny pool! And the photos of the complete flouting of the rules continued to surface.

The comments find it all very amusing!

Roll up, roll up! Come and see the dying baby orca calf!

And then, as we near the end of this animal's torment, Ingrid brags to the press about how she's now TRAINING the animal she intends to release into the wild. Because we definitely want to be training cooperative care and making life saving feeding and hydrating procedures all about Choice.

Remember when Ingrid Visser didn't like the "exploitation" of orcas in captivity? Remember when she said that training "tricks", even husbandry behaviours, is cruel and bad? I do!

It makes me seriously wonder if she just wanted to be an orca trainer all her life.

But anyway, Toa's getting bouts of colic (gee, maybe changing the formula without permission wasn't a good idea!) and DOC is starting to get concerned about him. At this point, people are still denying that SeaWorld and Loro Parque are involved and any mention of a facility getting involved is immediately shut down.

This is what was being said in the Advisory Group:

At this point both SeaWorld and Loro Parque have provided formulas, advice ect. Ingrid Visser was claiming she knew these things all along and that the formulas were from her hand picked experts.

So these are what the comments were:

Whale Rescue thought it was appropriate to reply to comments of concern like this:

The cult of Visser continues to fuel the anti human care sentiment.

DOC starts to report concerns with Toa's health and Whale Rescue decides to double down that everything is completely Fine. Don't listen to DOC, keep giving us money.

The donations are getting up to 20k.

Because of Whale Rescue casting dispersions, anti DOC (Department of Conservation - who put in about 10k into the rescue efforts) sentiments grow.

And, only a few days later, Toa dies. I reached the end of my image limit but I still have plenty more screenshots I can share.

I recommend you check out the documents released by DOC to see the sources of these screenshots - the other screenshots were taken from news reports, Facebook groups and posts as well as videos:

[winterscaptain]

like a family.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: it's soooo late but i will blame the brain damage (lmao). i am SO excited to share this one with you all and throw us back into the mean it era for a while!! we'll be living here for the next few weeks and i am working on a lot of revisions!! to orient us: this is the first case back from suspension!

maybe we get two fics this week as a treat?? i'll throw up a poll.

words: 13.1k content advisories: canon-typical violence, case discussion (acid attacks), language, emotional confrontation, mentions of PTSD and grief

summary: “love implies anger. the man who is angered by nothing cares about nothing.” – edward abbey. october 19th, 2011

Hat, blazer, shoes, phone, wallet, keys…

“You have everything?” Aaron asks. 

You hesitate, patting your pockets, feeling around in your work bag. “Trying to…figure that out.” Your speech is halting, distracted, as if you can’t quite remember the rhythm of this.

It’s been a long time since we’ve had to do this. Four weeks? Five weeks?

You glance at him. “We’re definitely looking at a case this week, right?”

Aaron nods. “Pretty bad, looks like. I've been monitoring a few, but we’ll see where Garcia sends us. My guess is Oklahoma.” 

You pull a face. “Okay.” 

You take a breath and walk over to him, pressing your full weight to his chest. He huffs a little laugh, warm and familiar, and kisses your forehead. 

“We have to go,” he murmurs, hands settling on your shoulders. Gently, he unglues you, holds you at arms length. His thumbs brush little circles over your coat, like a tether. 

“You love your job. We love our jobs. Right?” 

A beat.

“Right.” 

+++

You share a little smile before getting into your respective cars, lingering in the moment just a beat longer than necessary.

It’s been a blissful (and, at times, excruciating) few weeks without work. Stepping back into reality won’t be easy.

Aaron’s face is unreadable at first—calm, collected. But then, just before he reaches for the door, his jaw shifts. Just slightly. A reflex, like he’s forcing something back into place.

You’re not sure if having this much uninterrupted time together has been good for you, or for whatever this relationship is becoming—but at this point, there’s very little that could fuck you up further.

The separation, the boundaries, will be good. Structure. Distance. Something that’s just yours.

He exhales through his nose, his fingers flexing once at his side before closing around the car handle.

You pull your door open, mirroring him. Baby steps.

+++

“Look, master of all things Italian, I am having a Fellini festival at my house this weekend and I must serve the beautiful food of his country.” You turn as Penelope and Dave walk in, no doubt discussing the pancetta disaster in her little green tupperware. 

Dave makes a face. “Maybe you should show a Disney film and stick with burgers.”

“You know, Rossi,” Derek says, “you could always give Penelope a cooking lesson.”

“Oh, my gosh, that would be amazing. That would be like-- that would be like the Iron Chef meets the BAU.” She pauses, her voice creeping higher. “And we could do it at your house.”

“I don't have a house, I have a mansion.” 

You roll your eyes. When you look at Spencer to share the moment, he avoids you. There’s a little flash of hurt in your chest and you do your best to smother it. Everyone is clearly handling things differently and you’re trying not to take things personally. 

It’s not about you. 

A folder lands in front of you, and you feel Aaron pass behind you.

"Alright, let’s get started."

The sound of his voice—low, steady, too steady—sends a little shock up your spine. 

The impact he has on your heart rate isn’t reasonable or fair—you see him all the time, heard those words hundreds of times, but the added clandestine knowledge makes it so much worse.

It’s the undeniable weight of him in the room, the heat of his presence, the way he exists in your periphery like a living problem. Your heart takes off at a gallop. 

And it’s not just knowing him, now. It’s knowing how his hands feel, how he breathes and the sounds he makes when he’s close, how his pulse jumps when you kiss the scar on his jaw.

Plus, I know what’s hiding under those suits…

Stop!! Focus!

It’s knowing too much—and having to act like it means nothing.

You fight to keep your breathing steady. You can feel the heat creep up your neck. 

The best outcome you can hope for is that nobody’s paying attention to you. 

Aaron smirks out of the corner of your eye. He knows.

Well. Somebody is paying attention to you. 

Bastard. 

You ignore him. Well. As best you can. Eventually, he schools his expression—a fraction of a second too late. Like he almost forgot himself, just for a moment. But then the mask comes back, smoothing over the smirk, the glances, the heat. He takes a small, almost imperceptible pause before opening his folder, treating it almost like a little milestone. He’s focused, now, centered. 

You flip through as Penelope starts, noting the freshness of the paper. There’s new information on this case since this morning.

“You are jetting to Durant, Oklahoma, because in the last three days, two women have been found dead after being sexually tortured and then blinded with a sulfuric acid solution.” 

Yikes. He was right. 

Your body is still reacting to Aaron. Your brain is already spiraling into the horrors of the case. And in that moment, you hate how both things can exist at once.

“Abby Elcott is our first victim.” A photo of a young woman appears on the monitor. “A nineteen-year-old art student. She was headed to campus for an advanced drawing class. She'd been missing for two days.” Garcia clicks again and a few more photos appear. “Same goes for our second victim, Beth Westerly, seventeen. She had just finished her coffee shop shift and was on her way to a barre method class.”

“Low risk,” you note. “Hard targets.”

Aaron exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before adjusting the way his hands rest on the table.

Derek agrees. “And physically similar.” He looks at Penelope. “How close are the two abduction sites?”

“Five miles apart at bus stops. Abby’s cell was found near one, Beth’s scarf near the other.” 

“Where are the dump sites?” Spencer asks. 

“One in an alley, the other in a field.”

JJ’s brow crinkles, her finger supporting her temple as she works through the details. “So he stapled their eyes open, then he blinded them.”

“It's about power and control,” Derek suggests. “Maybe he didn't want them to watch while he hurt them.”

“Or it could be about shame,” Spencer replies. “Perhaps the unsub is disfigured himself. Blinding the victims leaves them helpless, lost, totally dependent. It may be a manifestation of how he sees himself in this world.” 

There’s something loaded, a hidden meaning in his words, and a strange look passes over JJ’s face. You glance at Aaron without moving your head, trying to be subtle. His tongue passes over his lower lip and he swallows. It’s an acknowledgement. 

Later.

Emily tips her head. “It is a form of enucleation, just without the scalpel.”

“His face is the last they see before darkness,” Dave says grimly. 

Damn. That’s dark, Dave.

Aaron compiles the papers in front of him, closing the folder. He clears his throat once before speaking again—unusual, for him. “Garcia, come up with a list of jobs that would give the unsub access to sulfuric acid.” He looks up, meeting everyone’s eyes around the table. “The rest of us, wheels up in thirty minutes.”

You hang back, letting Aaron leave before you start packing your things. 

“You good?” Derek asks. His eyes are creased, concerned. 

You nod quickly, too quickly. “Yep. Just nice to be back. Happy to be back into the swing of things, you know?” 

“Uh huh,” he says, skeptical, but not pushing. He doesn’t completely buy it.  His gaze flicks over you, assessing, before he adds, “Anything else going on? Seems like you ran a mile before coming in this morning or something.”

Your breath hitches—not much, just a fraction—but enough that you have to actively steady it before responding.

"Not sure. Feeling a little jittery, but that’s normal after some time away, right?"”

He shrugs, still watching you, but lets it go. You’re left with Emily and JJ, who are looking at something on JJ’s phone, heads bent close together. 

You smile a little. It’s good to have her back. 

You grab a few random papers—something, anything—and cross the bridge, stopping outside Aaron’s office.

You don’t need to speak. You don’t really even pause. Just a meaningful glance—a beat too long, a breath too deep.

He clocks it immediately. His eyes track yours, and something in his expression flickers. Acknowledgement. Understanding.

You keep walking.

You get down to your desk. Folders in, loose papers out. You don’t really care what they are, but you make a show of it, slow and methodical. Just in case anyone’s watching.

You take them to the copy room.

Sixty seconds later, Aaron joins you. The door clicks shut behind him.

You barely wait a breath. Your body moves before your brain does—a step forward, then another, and then you’re pressing yourself into his chest, arms winding tight around his waist.

He exhales as he catches you, his hands finding their place, firm and sure. One at the small of your back, the other settling between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t say anything—just holds you close, steady, solid.

“Are you okay?” 

You nod. “Just a hard transition.” 

“Yeah.” 

You’re quiet for a minute, content to melt into his arms, let all your stress drop out of you through your toes. “I miss you.” 

He hums. It’s almost an amused sound. “I miss you too.” 

“It’s silly, because you’re right here, but -” 

“No, I get it. Not the same as being at home.” 

You sigh into him. "No, it’s not."

He holds you just a little tighter for a moment—just long enough to tell you he means it.

Then, a breath. A return to center..

"Alright," he murmurs, softer now. "Fake copy that file, and I’ll meet you at the jet."

+++

There’s a thin layer of tension coating the inside of the jet, but it’s easy enough to ignore if you try hard enough. 

Spencer shoulder-checks JJ on his way to put his bag away and you watch, stunned, as he does absolutely nothing to help her as she stumbles, nearly falling into you in the bank of seats by the table. You catch her and let her grab your hand to steady herself. 

“Thanks,” she says. It almost sounds sad. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about it.”

She offers you a thin smile and you realize her jaw is tight, her smile only reaches her eyes by the barest amounts. You flip your hand, catching her wrist as she pulls away, and meet her eyes. 

The guilt is eating her up, and Spencer isn’t helping. 

It’s okay. 

She shakes her head, but smiles as if to reassure you, wrapping her fingers around yours and squeezing once. You hold her gaze. 

I gotchu. 

You know she knows. She softens and leans against Emily’s chair, studiously ignoring Spencer as he sits just about as far away as he can get without completely excluding himself from the group. You shift as the rest of the team joins you, taking a place on the arm of the sofa between Aaron and Spencer. 

“Victimology is very similar,” Aaron says, almost to himself. “Blond-haired, blue-eyed teenage girls.”

“Local PD believes they were abducted close to nearby public transit stops,” JJ adds. You look through the maps, noting the routes of the buses common to both stops. There’s only one, and you file it for later.

Emily holds up a picture of one of the victims. “When was this photo taken?”

“Beth was caught on a bank surveillance camera three hours before she disappeared,” he gestures to the other photo in her hand. “That’s a recent photo of Abby.”

“So, she wasn’t found in the same clothes she was abducted in?” Emily asks. 

You lean forward. “Maybe the ones she was wearing were burned by the acid?” 

“It’s possible,” Spencer says. “Sulfuric acid can turn human flesh into soap.” 

Gross. 

Aaron turns to Penelope on the monitor, “Garcia, any recent similar cases in the surrounding area?”

“Actually, yes. Two months ago a prostitute and a runaway were both found raped and killed and they had stab wounds to their eyes.”

“Could this be an escalation?” You ask. 

JJ’s brow furrows. “Maybe he practiced on high-risk victims first.”

Derek finishes her thought, “And then advanced to chemical enucleation.”

“Isn’t that a rare paraphilia?” JJ’s question is one you also had. 

You almost expect Spencer to answer, being the expert on all things odd or weird or otherwise rare, but Emily answers instead. “Well. the chemical part is. It would exacerbate the pain.”

Dave makes a comment about Ed Kemper and surrogates, but it’s nothing new. Surrogate murder is almost cliche at this point among serial killers with a specific victim profile. 

Aaron makes assignments and you land with JJ and Spencer, headed to the abduction sites when you land. You watch as JJ attempts to connect with Spencer like you had this morning, but he pointedly looks away from her, studying the file in his lap with a tight set of his mouth. 

This is going to be a long day.  

+++

“So, Beth got off the bus here and headed northwest toward class,” you recap, using the map and tracing your finger along the path. You look down the sidewalk as the three of you walk her last route, seeing an average amount of foot traffic and plenty of witness opportunities. 

JJ seems to read your mind. “It’s amazing no one witnessed her abduction.”

“I was think-” 

Spencer cuts you off. “Emily was buried six feet under and wound up in Paris, so I guess anything is possible, right?”

Yeah. His attitude this morning? Definitely not about you.

“So, that’s what this is about,” JJ says flatly.

Spencer carries on as if she hasn’t said anything at all. “Maybe our unsub's a little bit like Bundy. He feigns injury in order to get her to help him.”

JJ tries again and you feel more and more like an unwanted witness by the moment. JJ cuts him off with her body, stepping in front of him. “Look, Spence, if you want to talk about this -”

He continues to talk over her, “Maybe he tried other tactics, like, ‘Wow, you're really pretty. You should be a model. I can take your photo.’” 

She looks at you with a mixture of hurt and incredulity.  You take a big breath and shake your head. 

It’s not worth it right now. He’s not ready.

Regardless, she persists. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Either one would disarm her,” Spencer says. 

You step halfway between them, hoping to create a subtle buffer. “Charm is quite the killer.”

“So are tears.” He carries on, hardly taking a breath between thoughts. “Whatever his ruse was, the unsub mostly likely used it to get her into his vehicle.”

“Well,” you answer. “If Abby was last seen at a bus stop a few miles away, then he definitely has a means of transportation.”

“Hopefully the disposal site will tell us more.” Spencer’s already walking away before he finished his thought, leaving you and JJ looking dumbly after him. 

After a second, you remember your purpose and follow, JJ on your heels.

+++

You meet Derek and Emily at one thrift store Aaron sent you to and you split up to cover more ground. You share a significant, loaded look with Derek, who then comes up with some way to rearrange Aaron’s assignments. He keeps JJ and Reid together, swapping you for Emily. 

You’re thankful, and your mission is successful. You and Derek find Abby’s clothes, hawked or traded for the items she was wearing when her body was found. The clerk identifies them, confirming that they were genuine 80s vintage sold at his store. 

Helpful, indeed.

On the way back to the station, Derek surprises you with an unrelated question. “So you’re pissed at him, right?” 

You look over at him, driving (to this point) in silence. “Hm?”

“Hotch. You’re pissed at him, too, right?”

You weigh your options. You could exaggerate how upset you are, citing and harkening back to Aaron’s return (leaving out the sex part), or you could be honest. You split the difference. 

“Well, I screamed at him a bunch when he got back. I’m less mad now than I was then, but that’s not a high bar.” You shrug. “I’m more upset about Pakistan than Emily though, if I’m honest.”

Derek nods. “I get that.”

“I know that wouldn’t be the case for you,” you continue, “since you were there when she, you know.” 

“Yeah.” 

You sit in silence for a minute. “So, how pissed are you?”

“I’m not happy, I can tell you that much.”

You resist the urge to parrot him. I get that. “Right.”

“Do I think it was a stupid and hurtful choice? Yeah.” He sighs. “Do I get it on some level? Also yeah. I mean -“ He huffs. “I can also understand the position they were in, you know? I mean, I wasn’t unit chief for long but there’s a lot you can’t -“ He cuts himself off. “I get it. I do. I’m still mad.”

You nod. “That’s fair. And I think I feel the same way. I get it, but that doesn’t help me be less-pissed, you know?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “I’m worried about Reid.”

Your mouth twists. “Me too. There’s a lot of anger there and it’s leaking like a shitty faucet.”

Derek shakes his head. “He’s not like us, you know? He’s not good at stuffing his feelings -“

“Not that that’s an admirable quality, or anything,” you add wryly. 

Derek laughs lightly, deflecting. “No, but it can help with stuff like this.”

“Right.”

The two of you sit in silence after that. 

+++

Aaron looks over his shoulder from the board when you and Derek walk in, a little crinkle in his brow. “Where’re Reid and JJ?”

“With Emily,” you answer. When you get closer you murmur, “I’ll tell you later.” 

He nods and turns back to the board, writing labels in his blocky handwriting. “I’ve asked the chief to assemble his shift change officers for a profile delivery,” he says, only loud enough for you to hear. “Do you think we have enough?” 

“When Dave and the others get back from the dumpsite, I think we will. Three victims, we have the pattern and can deliver our conclusions from there.” You look over at him, studying the board with your arms crossed, and you know your face softens when your eyes meet. 

It’s so cheesy. So lame. But damn it, he makes you so happy. 

Disgusting. 

The eye closest to the board pinches in a lightning fast wink and you smother a bigger smile as Derek joins you, putting his notes under the photos of Abby and Beth. 

“We getting ready for profile delivery?” He asks. 

“Mhm,” you answer. You mark the latest dump site on the map. “Just waiting on the others to get back.” 

+++

Before the profile delivery, the team holes up in one of the conference rooms to comb through the findings so far. It’s…rough. To say the least. 

Spencer makes another little snide comment. You inhale deeply through your nose, jaw tightening. He’s been like this for days, snapping at JJ, sniping at Aaron. You’ve ignored it. Over and over.

Your fingers tighten around your pen. The back of your neck prickles. 

Breathe in. Hold. Out.

JJ speaks, her voice light but thoughtful. “Could there be something he’s not getting from the women in his life? Something he’s missing?”

“Wonder what that’s like,” Spencer mutters under his breath, but the sharp edge in his tone makes it clear he doesn’t mean the unsub.

Your pen slams onto the desk with a crack. “Goddamn it, Spencer. That’s enough.”

“What?!” He says, his voice crawling up a couple octaves. “What did I say?” He has the gall to look offended that you called him out.

“What haven’t you said?” You throw your hands and sit back in your chair. Hot, ugly anger flares in your sternum and you simply don’t care that the rest of the team is staring at you in various states of shock and concern. “You’re being mean. You’re being mean and pretending like you aren’t and I’ve fucking had it.” 

He has the nerve to look indignant. “Wh-”

“Don’t you think I’ve heard - that we’ve all heard - the innumerable little chirps and passive aggressive bullshit you’ve said to JJ and Hotch since we got back?” 

“They aren’t innumerable,” he snarks. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh. So we’re acknowledging them now? And counting them? That’s nice.” You can hear your last name leave Aaron’s mouth as a word of warning. You ignore him. There’s silence for a moment. You cross your arms. “Are you going to say anything else, or are you done? I’m sure either of them would be happy to discuss it with you—if you acted like a grown-up.”  

“Bullshit!” Spencer spits. “They -” he points at JJ and Aaron, whose faces are hard and hurt. “- weren’t acting like grown ups when they lied to our faces.”

“They were, actually.” You sound petulant, but you can’t really bring yourself to feel bad about it. 

“Oh, really?” It’s not a real question, but you’re happy to provide him with an answer. 

“Yes, really. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.” Your voice is louder than you want, and you’ve straightened in your chair, jabbing your finger into the table.  

Spencer’s eyes harden. “So, you’re not mad at them at all, right? Academy hotshot, child prodigy that you are, right? Who defends every fucking thing that comes out of Hotch’s mouth, right?” 

Ouch. 

You get quiet. In your peripheral vision, you see JJ cover her mouth to cover her jaw dropping to the floor. Derek plants his hands on the table, moving to stand, and you wave him off. This is not worth Derek being on Spencer’s shit list too, especially not on your behalf. There’s thunder behind Aaron’s carefully controlled expression, and you know he’s holding back his worser instincts. Emily looks down at the conference room table and it only adds to your anger that she looks ashamed. 

She has nothing to feel bad about. 

Beyond that, the jab about Hotch isn’t worth mentioning. Plus, it really hurts. “I’m pissed, Spencer, but I am not -” and regrettably, your volume increases with every word, “- shortsighted and selfish enough to think that my feelings are more important than things that matter, like-“ You gesture vaguely, “I don’t know. Emily’s life and safety and international security.” You stand, pushing yourself out of your chair. “Grow up.”

Silence. A charged, suffocating silence.

No one speaks. No one moves. Aaron’s mouth is a firm, thin line. JJ looks stunned, almost hurt. Derek's hands flex against the table, like he’s deciding whether to step in. Emily won’t look up at all.

You turn on your heel and walk out, letting the door shut behind you. Hard.

Outside, the air is sharp in your lungs, but it doesn’t cool the anger burning under your skin. You take in a deep breath, then another, but your pulse still hammers in your throat.

The fresh air outside does nothing to cool you off, but you do gulp down several breaths before you hear the door open and shut behind you again. You know who it is. Though, given Spencer’s comment, you kind of hoped it was Derek. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aaron says. 

“I wasn’t kidding. I’m fucking sick of it.” You can’t look at him. You’re already embarrassed. You’ve never yelled at Spencer like that, let alone in the middle of a conference room that may or may not be soundproof. At best, it’s unprofessional. At worst… “You should write me up now and save yourself some time when we get home.” 

Aaron steps up beside you, leaning against the railing, his shoulder brushing yours. “I’m not going to write you up.” 

You sniff. 

“I’m not going to write Reid up, either.” 

Your mouth twists. “We’re all mad. I get it. Some of us are just professional enough to shut the fuck up about it.” 

“Right,” Aaron says. You can hear a laugh in it, though his face doesn’t change. “Like we’re professionals.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

He sobers. “I do. I tried talking to him about it but I’ll try again. It’s not fair, to JJ in particular. He’s lashing out at her - it’s targeted and I’ve about had enough of it myself.” He pauses for a moment. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. It’s been a while since you’ve lost it like that.” 

Hot tears prick at your eyes. “I’ve never lost it on Spencer like that. Any of them, really.” 

“Just me, huh?” 

Your eyes flash to him for a moment, the side of your mouth tipping up. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not. But it does tell me you care.” 

You take a big breath and the burning behind your eyes melts away to a simple headache. The heels of your hands scrub into your eye sockets until you see color behind your lids. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be back in to apologize.” 

“Take your time. You don’t have to apologize now, or ever, honestly.” He adds the last bit under his breath before continuing. “I’ll separate the two of you for the day and see where we land.” He taps the railing twice and shifts his weight to leave. 

“Aaron?” 

He turns back, looking at you, half-turned toward the door “Hmm?” 

You look at him, your lower lip disappearing into your mouth, hoping he understands. With the smallest of smiles, he reaches out and briefly (briefly) squeezes your bicep and turns, disappearing into the station. 

+++

The conference room is silent when you come back. You sit down and pick up your pen, forcing yourself to twirl it casually between your fingers. Aaron already planted himself in the chair beside yours, his breathing even as he marks up a copy of one of the reports, his right hand splayed over the paper. 

Spencer spins in his chair, a folder in his lap. Emily tapes the latest photos to the whiteboard mechanically, her eyes following her hands just a second too late. 

Dave sits in the corner, his ankle propped on his knee, his hand supporting his face. He looks at you, his eyes the only thing moving. His eyebrow twitches. 

You shake your head. It’s fine. 

Derek stands and taps your shoulder. “I’m going for a drive and I could use your eyes on this before we go for profile with the shift change.” 

You nod and stand, grabbing your coat, recognizing the effort for what it is. At least Derek’s attempting to be subtle about it. 

The door doesn’t quite slam when you get into the car, but it comes close. You cringe a little and settle as Derek rounds the back bumper, checks the trunk, and hops in. 

There’s silence as he pulls out of the station parking lot and gets onto the four-lane out of town. 

“So, where are we going?” You ask. You hope you don’t sound too cross, but you’re not even sure how you’re feeling right now, if you’re completely honest with yourself. 

Derek turns onto the highway. “Out. Figured it would be nice to get out of there for a minute.” 

You pull a face. “Was it that bad after I left?”

“No,” Derek says. He sounds convincing but you’re not sure he’s that good. “But I think everyone could use a little space.”

“From me, you mean.” 

“Including you,” he says, glancing over briefly. “There’s a lot of bad blood in there. Thought you might need a break.”

You’re quiet for a minute. “Was I too far out of line?” You do your best not to sound like you’re begging for affirmation or whining too much, but it may be a lost cause. “I know I’ve never really lost it like that on any of you except - well.” You cut yourself off. “I just want to make sure I wasn’t too ridiculous or overblown or anything.” 

Derek shakes his head. “Reid was out of line, and I’m not surprised you called him on it. You didn’t say anything untrue or hurtful.”

“Favor wasn’t returned, obviously.”

“Yeah… that was…” Derek lets out a breath. “I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t say it.” 

A moment of silence passes. 

“I don’t defend Hotch that much do I?” You ask, your voice small. It’s not sudden, but Spencer’s comment unlocked some not-so-hidden insecurity that everyone can see through you, that you play favorites and Hotch is the recipient of most of your affection in the field. It doesn’t feel true, but you’re not sure if your perception is warped.

Derek reaches over and clasps your shoulder fondly. “No. We can always count on you to have his back, but it’s not like it’s a punchline or anything.” He pauses. “Why? You worried about what he said?”

“I dunno,” you say, shrugging. “It just struck a nerve and I wanted to check.” 

“It struck a nerve because Reid meant to lash out.” Derek’s eyes stay on the road, but his voice is calm. Too calm. “It was meant to hurt your feelings.”

Your throat tightens. “How do you know?”

He shrugs, easy and confident. “Because it’s not true. You push Hotch just as much as you back him up.” He glances at you, a knowing glint in his eye. “You do it because you love him.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you with the force of a sucker punch, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Am I that obvious?

Derek continues on blithely, as if he’s said nothing of consequence. “It would be like if someone threw Garcia in my face. I’d jump in front of a moving train for her, so what?” He shrugs and you try to relax. “It’s fine to be close to people, to go out of your way to support them.” He glances over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you answer, too quickly. “I’m fine.” 

A smile curves at the edge of Derek’s mouth. “Your secret’s safe with me, kid. Though I’m not sure how much of a secret it is anymore.”

This is not helping your adrenaline situation. You turn on the seat warmer and shove your hands under your thighs to hide their shaking. 

“What secret?”

Derek throws you a sardonic look. “C’mon. We all know there’s something going on there.” 

You shake your head and you just know it’s not convincing. You weren’t prepared for this. “Nothing more so than usual. Hotch and I have always been -”

“If you say ‘close,’ I’m gonna pull this damn car over.” 

You just frown at him, hoping it plays at confusion. To your chagrin, Derek sighs and takes the exit, getting back on the highway in the other direction before speaking again. 

“One of these days,” he starts, “you’re going to have to figure out what to do about that. Just -” He huffs. “- just be brave, okay?”

You're quiet. Any attempt to protest would just be damning, and any attempt to explain what you have, in fact, already done about that would nullify your attempt to have something (for once) that’s just for you and Aaron.

And, of course, you can’t mention that what you have ‘done about that’ includes, but is not limited to, Aaron himself. 

Sigh…

Derek surprises you, reaching over again to make contact. You hold his offered hand in two of your own. Maybe some tremors are warranted, now.

The police station is in sight when Derek speaks again. “Is Hotch going to write you up?”

You shake your head. “He’s not writing Reid up either.”

“Good,” Derek replies, releasing your hand so he can park, “best to keep this in-house.” 

You hum your assent and move to unbuckle your seatbelt, but Derek stops you, demanding your eyes with his hand over yours. You look up at him. 

“Remember what I said, okay?” 

You must look lost, because he clarifies.

“Be brave. It’ll be okay. You were brave with Spencer today and -”

You scoff and he grabs your hand. 

“I’m serious. You stood up for yourself and for JJ and Hotch. You did the right thing.”

“Really?” 

“Look - I don’t completely disagree with Reid and I am plenty mad at them, but there’s a way to go about it and that’s not it.” He pauses, making sure you understand. “I’m proud of you.”

+++

When you and Derek return, the rest of the team is ready to deliver the profile. 

Aaron addresses the assembled officers, introducing the team and giving a brief primer on the case and its scope for those who haven’t been on shift since you arrived. “We’re here to help your department and assist in narrowing your subject pool.” He pauses, briefing them on how the profile delivery works and how to apply it. 

With a jolt, you realize it’s been several weeks since you’ve seen him perform this standard task. The last time you saw him deliver a profile, it was before Pakistan, before… everything. 

It’s surreal. 

You don’t know it, but Emily catches you watching him, an unfathomably deep affection in your eyes and a soft smile on your face. She takes a note and tries to see what you see, but instead catches him catching you, meeting your eyes with a dubious kind of teasing in his own. You startle and drop your eyes. He looks back at the officers, a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. 

…Interesting.

“We believe the unsub or unknown subject that we're looking for is a white male in his 40s,” Aaron says, kicking you all off. “This is someone who's reacting to rejection by a woman when he was teenager in the 1980s. He's punishing his victims for their reactions to him by taking away their senses with sulfuric acid.”

Dave adds on. “We believe our unsub could possibly work part-time as a janitor or a mechanic, which would give him access to this chemical.”

“And after studying the disposal sites, we think it's likely that he is homeless,” Derek says. “Now, how do we typically react toward the homeless? We judge them by their looks and smells. It's that same negative reaction we believe that a woman had toward the unsub at some point in the eighties.”

“The unsub's fixation on this woman is now all-consuming,” you add, gesturing easily and casually to your audience. These presentations have become easier over the years and feel second-nature now. “It caused him to develop Obsessive Love Disorder, characterized by compulsive and dysfunctional behavior focused on the object of the unsub’s fixation. He most likely has tunnel vision and believes that she holds the key to his happiness.”

“He will stalk her in an attempt to win her back,” Emily adds.

JJ jumps in next. “He will do whatever it takes to be near his love interest. But her rejection will spiral him into a depression.”

“Which would lead to rape and murder of the surrogates who represent her.” Reid cuts straight to the point, driving it home. “And it's only a matter of time before this rage and anger causes the unsub to go after her directly.”

Aaron thanks the assembled when everyone’s done presenting their findings, and makes himself available for questions. 

+++

You rest your temple on your finger as you look over Emily’s notes, combing through anything you may have missed. The rest of the team is out at the board. You’ve decided to place yourself in exile at this point, not trusting yourself to behave well enough for mixed company. 

“Spence, we have to talk about this,” JJ says, following Reid into your conference room at a decent clip as he blusters into the room, haphazardly collecting and gathering folders to his chest.

Oh, shit. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

JJ persists. “I get it, okay? You're disappointed with the way we handled Emily.”

“Listen, I have a lot going on, all right?” Spencer says, still avoiding her.

“You know what I think it is?” She asks. “You're mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital and you weren't able to detect our deception.”

And that’s my cue to… get the fuck out of here.

You gather the notes and slip out of the conference room, taking refuge at Aaron’s side. You can’t hear JJ or Spencer clearly anymore and it feels better that way. Sure, you’re all privy to way more than normal colleagues, but this feels uniquely private. It would be intrusive for you to stay, especially after your little display only an hour or so ago. 

You’d almost feel bad for Spencer if he weren’t piling it all on himself. 

“Spence!” JJ calls after him as he backs out of the conference room. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late, alright?” He turns and tries to leave, passing you all at the board.

Emily’s fingers worry the corner of the report she’s holding. “Reid…?”

Everyone’s eyes follow Spencer as he takes your worn path out of the station. When the door closes behind him, the rest of you turn back to JJ, whose lashes are wet. She looks devastated. She takes a breath and turns, hiding from everyone’s eyes. 

You swallow and look at Aaron, feeling useless and helpless. He’s still watching JJ, his face hard. 

+++

“It would have had to have been a woman very close to the unsub to make him react this way,” Aaron says.

He stands at the corner of the table, Dave and JJ seated on either side of him. You stand over Emily’s shoulder, occasionally watching the door. 

Spencer’s been gone for hours now. All of you have texted him, but he’s only responded to Hotch to confirm he is, in fact, alive. 

“Then why go after surrogates?” You ask. “Surely with someone so close, he wouldn’t have to sublimate his rage?”

Aaron tips his head and takes a breath to answer, but Reid’s reappearance stops him short. 

“I don't think we're dealing with a typical homeless person. He's good with chemicals, owns a car.” He walks to the head of the table, by the board, and addresses all of you. “I think the only mistake in our profile was assuming there was something wrong with his physical composition, reducing him to some sort of stereotype.”

Welcome back? 

JJ blinks a few times and casts her eyes downward, studying the wood grain. There’s shame and sadness leaching from her every pore. Your eyes bounce from her to Aaron, whose eyes are on Spencer. Careful. Watchful.

“You think it's only his mental state?” Dave asks.

“I think this guy might be smart enough to use his disability to his advantage so he comes across as harmless.”

Derek nods, considering it. “Then when he's alone and the victim rejects him, he goes off.”

“What if he doesn't live on the street?” JJ asks, her tone flat. “What if he's in a halfway house?”

Aaron already has Penelope on the line. “Garcia, I need a list of halfway houses and mental health centers in the unsub's comfort zone.”

She provides five, and Aaron narrows it further to two with parameters related to the 80s. 

He sends Derek and Emily to the first, and assigns you and Dave with him for the second. 

That leaves Reid and JJ alone. Here. In the station. 

“What about us?” JJ must have the same thought, because she sounds a little worried.

“Stay here and check ViCAP for similar M.O.s and signatures.” Aaron pauses as she leaves her chair, taking the long way around the table. “Reid,” he says in a tone that brokers no room for argument. “If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

“I can't. I didn't come to your house crying for weeks.”

Reid’s voice is brittle, laced with something harsher than hurt, and it lands like a slap as he glares at you. The accusation is clear—you aren’t as devastated as him, as wrecked, as broken. Maybe you don’t care as much. Maybe you’re weaker for forgiving so quickly, for understanding.

And then, before you can even take a full breath, he’s gone—fast, too fast, like he couldn’t get away from you quickly enough.

Aaron hasn’t moved, except for his eyes—still locked on the door, his jaw tight, unreadable.

You take a breath, roll your shoulders back. “For what it’s worth, I did come to your house crying for weeks.”

Your voice is lighter than you feel, edged with something that isn’t quite humor, but isn’t bitterness either. You’re not sure what it is, really—only that it sits deep in your ribs, thick and unmoving. It’s the thing keeping you from committing fully, probably. 

Aaron finally looks at you. Really looks at you. His eyes soften.

“And I’m not that mad at you.”

“I know.” He pauses. “Thank you for being so… understanding.” You know he wants to say more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. 

One side of your mouth tips up as you stand. “Anytime.”

+++

You’re back before Derek and Emily. Their spot was further and you’re sure Aaron sent them to that one on purpose. The extent of his awareness when it comes to interpersonal strategy can only be chalked up to his background in law. You’re just glad he’s using his powers for good now. 

He gets a call from Derek, who must report back on his findings. He shares yours as well. “We got eleven from the one we visited.” 

Eleven possible suspects, in addition to however many Derek and Emily found. You check your watch. It’s been the longest day of your life so far, you’re pretty sure. 

“Send your names to Garcia. Have her cross-check them against jobs that use sulfuric acid.”

Aaron hangs up and you continue walking down the hall, posting up on the other side of Dave.

“How’s Reid?” Dave asks. 

“He's angry and frustrated. I'm surprised everybody isn't.” He looks meaningfully at you. You shrug. 

Dave also offers a shrug. “Some of us had an inkling.” 

You look incredulously at Dave, your eyebrows furrowed. “There’s no way.” 

“What?” He asks. “I'm good at what I do.” After a pause, you’ve corrected your face and he turns more directly to Aaron. The three of you form a little triangle. “So, are you gonna get psychological counseling for the team or handle it internally?”

You can see the wheels turning before Dave even finishes his thought, noting the dangerous glint of amusement in Aaron’s eyes. “No, I think that if we all just got together, maybe a cooking lesson at the home of one of one of our founders -”

“Oh no,” Dave says, cutting him off. “Not you, too.” 

“It could boost morale,” you add, unhelpful in the extreme. 

Aaron nods. “I think it’s almost a guarantee.”

“Is this an order?” Dave asks, seeming to accept defeat.

“No, it's just a - it's a very tempered suggestion.” There’s humor in his entire demeanor, and you find yourself grinning. 

Dave repeats him sardonically before walking away. “Tempered suggestion.”

You rejoin JJ and Spencer, who appear to be working in tense silence over the ViCAP reports. Aaron assigns you and Dave to call families and get a sense of your eleven possible unsubs. It’s tedious work and half of them don’t pick up. 

Dave looks over at you, tipping his head toward Spencer. “Sure you’re not sick of us?”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, flicking your gaze toward him before returning to your work. “Never.”

Rossi hums, rolling a toothpick between his fingers. He leans in slightly, dropping his voice just enough for the words to slip in under your radar.

“Not everyone would’ve turned that down, you know.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.

You don’t look up, your tone dismissive. “Didn’t want it.”

That should be the end of it. And maybe it is—for you.

But Rossi’s eyes flicker past you, toward the figure standing a few feet behind you. Hotch had approached, unnoticed, in the middle of the exchange. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t interrupt.

Just… stands there.

Watching.

And for a split second, Rossi catches something flicker across his face.

“So we interviewed the 19 people released from the group home,” Derek says, returning with Emily. “None of them fit the profile.”

You sit back, dropping your phone on the table. “We’re trying to reach families but it’s slow going.” 

One of the local detectives comes in with a new file. “Tammy Bradstone's parents just filed a report. Their daughter didn't return from homecoming.”

“Her face is similar to our three vics,” Emily says.

JJ’s face is sober, still a little watery from her rough afternoon with Spencer. “She's about the same age.”

“Well, the after party where she was last seen was smack in the comfort zone,” the detective says.

+++

The interviews with Tammy’s friends stretch long into the night, exhaustion creeping into every syllable, every note scribbled too hastily. It was already late before you started—now, it’s edging into cruel.

After Tammy’s boyfriend, you drop your head onto the table, exhaling in a slow, deliberate breath, fighting the yawn clawing at your throat. The words on your notepad blur.

A chair rolls back. Aaron leans forward, his voice even but softer than usual. “Alright. That’s enough for now.” He rubs his temple briefly before straightening. “Morgan and Prentiss, you take the parents’ house in the morning. We’ll keep going with interviews here.”

"Leave your phones on," he adds, already moving toward the door. “But get some rest.”

You drive with Aaron and Emily back to the hotel, taking the backseat to avoid any unnecessary temptation for your taxed and tired brain. 

“Goodnight,” Emily says. She steps out of the car and opens her arms. You step into her embrace and lay your head on her shoulder, holding her tight. You close your eyes and breathe her in, letting the peace of her presence settle you. 

Aaron walks ahead to give you and Emily some time, turning back to wait for the both of you. 

You pull back from her, holding onto her arms with affectionate hands. “Goodnight, Em.”

“Calling the boyfriend tonight?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Emily stops, tilting her head at you, skepticism written all over her face. She lets the silence stretch just long enough for you to feel it. Then—

"Right." A single nod. Her eyes flick to Hotch, standing a polite distance away, and then back to you.

"Not your boyfriend." She pauses, her voice suddenly laced with amusement. “Is that for your benefit, or so that Hotch won’t fly into a jealous rage?”

“Like he’s capable of that. Or would have any reason to.” You roll your eyes and firmly, but with humor, repeat yourself. “Goodnight, Em.”

She idly wonders if you’re terrible at lying, or terrible at being in denial. 

+++

To your shock and awe, you get a text from Aaron before bed. 

11:13pm Check outside your door. 

You make a face. 

11:13pm Why?

Your fingers hesitate on the door handle, your phone still in your other hand.

The response is almost immediate. 

11:13pm Don’t you trust me?

"Jesus." You roll your eyes but open the door anyway.

Aaron is already stepping inside before you can react. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing you in together. He doesn’t speak—just reaches, slow and deliberate, pulling you in. His hand runs up your back, warm and grounding, before he exhales into your skin. 

The shift in the air is palpable—he’s here. He’s yours. He’s… close. So close.

Your head tilts, your cheek finding his chest, and you close your eyes.

“This is risky business, Mr. Hotchner,” you murmur, a smile in your voice. 

He leans back just enough to take you in. “I missed you.”

“We’ve been spoiled,” you remind him softly. “We just need to get used to it.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I just…I wanted to say goodnight.”

“Did you, now?” You ask, leaning into him. Your tilt your head up, teasing him a little. 

His arms tighten around you and he smiles a warm, gentle smile. “Yeah. I did.” He pauses, swallows, and wets his lips. “I also wanted to kiss you a little.”

“Just a little? - mmph!”

His mouth is already on yours. Your hands find his chest, wind over his shoulders, your wrists crossing as you settle against him, your bodies flush. 

You don’t think you’ll ever tire of kissing him, of being in his arms. You can feel him smile against your mouth, his touch slow and indulgent. One hand finds your waist, slipping under your shirt, his thumb stroking your skin. The other pulls you against him, spread over your lower back, the curve in your spine. 

For a split second, you consider ruining the moment—reminding him that somewhere out there, a teenage girl is still missing. But if that were the bar, you’d never have a good day again.

And you’ve learned this much: there will always be something, always someone having the worst day of their life.

It doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have really good days, too.

He pulls away just enough to plant a chaste peck on the center of your mouth before resting his forehead against yours. You breathe him in—the warmth of him, the spice. His hair has been ungelled all week, and you love the way it flops over his forehead.

“I love you,” he says. 

That’s another thing you’ll never get tired of. 

“I love you.” you whisper. “So much.” 

He hums and nuzzles into you, his nose brushing yours. “I think I’ll have to sneak out of here, but I would like to stay.”

“I know,” you whisper, your arms slipping, your hands coming to rest on either side of his jaw. “We’ll be home soon.”

+++

You’re in the middle of an interview when Hotch pulls you. You join him in the hallway with Dave and Spencer. 

“They have a lead on Ben Bradstone, Tammy’s uncle. Morgan and Prentiss are with the parents and we’re trying to get a message to him.”

“What do we need to do?” You ask, mirroring him and crossing your arms. 

He checks his phone. “I just sent you and Dave the addresses to the mechanic shops where Mr. Bradstone picks up shifts. Reid, you go with Rossi.”

+++

You pull up behind Dave and Spencer at the Bradstone house, getting out of the car and jogging up the drive following your field trip. Derek opens the door. 

“Any luck?”

You answer. “He hasn’t been to either of the shops in the past two months -”

Spencer cuts you off. “But the one on Fourth said a bunch of car batteries had gone missing.”

You and Emily share a grim look as the house phone rings. 

“Wait,” Emily says, her hand up to stop Mrs. Bradstone from answering. 

Derek’s phone starts ringing scant seconds after the house phone. You’re almost certain it’s Penelope. He pauses, listening, then confirms, “It’s him.”

Emily gestures toward the phone, her tone gentle. “Okay, go ahead. Just like we talked about.”

Lyla picks up the phone with shaking hands. “Hello?..” Her breath catches in a sob and you know it’s not entirely fake. “Matt got arrested…They think that he hurt Tammy.” She pauses, shuddering and steeling herself. “Oh, God, Cy. I need you…I just--I--I need you to, uh, come over here and-” Emily reaches over, a note in her hand. Lyla reads it and nods, her voice turning almost mechanical. “I need you to talk. I need you to… hold me… Yes, I - Hurry. I have no one else to turn to.” She hangs up and bolts to her bedroom, trying to recover. “He’s coming.”

“You and Prentiss stay with them,” Dave says, gesturing to you and Spencer. “Morgan and I will get the front.” 

You watch from the living room as Lyla meets Cy on the flagstones in the front yard, watches her shake as he embraces her. She doesn’t wrap her arms around him, stiff and uncomfortable. 

“Cy Bradstone! FBI!” Derek appears from the side of the house. “Put your hands where I can see them! Let me see your hands!”

Dave gets closer. “On your knees, now!”

You get Hotch on the phone. 

“Hotchner,” he says. 

“Aaron? We’re coming in with Cy. I think you’ll need your A-game for this one.”

+++

You stand with Emily and Derek in observation, your arms crossed. 

“We need to know where Tammy is, Cy,” Aaron says. He’s in there with Dave, who stands in the corner. 

“We've looked in your car. There's no sign of her.” Dave is half in shadow, lurking on the side of the interrogation room without any lights.

“We know this isn't about Tammy,” Aaron says. “This is about your love for Lyla.”

“Lyla?” Cy asks. “Lie-la!” 

Dave starts the mid-game, prompting Cy to share information he wouldn’t otherwise. Aaron backs him up, prompting him along. Dave gets closer as you watch, affirming Cy’s worldview and redirecting his anger toward Lyla. 

Eventually, he agrees to tell you where she is. On one condition. 

You make eye contact with Aaron as he escorts Tammy’s father into interrogation. You sure?

His expression is sober, serious. We’ll be right there.

Your skepticism may have been well-placed. Aaron and Dave both have a hand on Mr. Bradstone’s shoulders as he lunges across the table at his brother, who laughs maniacally at his brother’s anger, hurt, and fear. 

Good God.

You and Derek head toward the cars, pending an address. You buckle in, your vest already on. 

“Ready?” Derek asks. “It could get bad in there.”

“I’ll be okay as long as we find her alive,” you assure him. “And even if we don’t, I’ll handle it.” 

You’re a little more explicit than you normally would be, but Spencer’s shoddy communication has brought that out of you in the last couple of days. The address appears on your phone, Derek broadcasts it on the radio, and you're off. A follow up text appears, moments later.

2:47pm Be safe.

You reply before stuffing your phone in your pocket. 

2:47pm Always.

When you get to the house, Tammy is alive, but unconscious. Holstering your gun, Emily calls for medics and you look at the shelves full of tapes, pulling box after box with Derek. 

You don’t envy the PD or the prosecutor in this case.

+++

You don’t realize how forlornly you’re staring out the window until Emily sits beside you. You’ve been so focused on not looking at Aaron too much or sitting too near to Aaron or touching Aaron too much or laughing too hard at what he says--

“You alright?” 

It’s exhausting. 

You snap out of your reverie. “Yeah. Just thinking.” 

She almost laughs. “It’s funny to see you so eager to get home. He must really be something, huh?” 

You don’t reply right away, but a little smile pulls at the corner of your lips. “I guess.” 

Emily scoffs and you catch Aaron’s smirk behind his tablet. “You guess?” 

“What do you want me to say, Em? Is it a crime to like the person you’re seeing?” There’s no heat in it at all and you grin at her.

Aaron’s expression morphs into something damn-near theatrical for him, looking mock-critical before he shakes his head as if seriously answering your question. 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking, keeping your face as neutral and serene as you can manage. He managed to conduct that entirely within your peripheral vision, sitting a couple rows away, just over Emily’s shoulder. 

“Well, it’s kind of a big deal, right? Like, when do any of us date?“

That’s a fair point. “Okay, true. But just because we don’t have lives doesn’t mean you get to harass me, though.” You raise your eyebrows, challenging her. 

“Oh,” she says through a sardonic laugh. “I totally think it does.”

+++

Eventually, you retire to the (shockingly unoccupied, except for Aaron) couch. You stretch, laying down, your travel pillow under your head. Aaron shifts, making a move to get up, and you wave him off. 

“Don’t bother,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “There’s plenty of space.”

He murmurs his thanks and you’re chuffed by your “normal” act. He sounds very casual, as if he doesn’t care either way. You’re impressed. You both know your lines. The blocking, however, could use some work. 

With that in mind, you make sure there’s respectable distance between you and Aaron. You have to, at least, give the impression that you tried. 

You shift in your seat, curling deeper into the couch cushions. Your slipper socks slide against the leather. Absentmindedly, in what could only be coincidence, your leg extends just enough—just barely—to brush against the outside of Aaron’s thigh.

You feel the shift in his breathing before anything else.

Predictably, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shift away. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. But the weight of the contact lingers, warm and solid, grounding you more than the couch cushions ever could.

Derek, Dave, and JJ have settled, snoozing peacefully at the table. Spencer has exiled himself to the little bank of seats furthest away from you. 

You hear someone - presumably Emily, pass you and sit by Spencer. She’s making the rounds, apparently. 

Aaron murmurs to you once she’s out of earshot. “Are you asleep?”

You shake your head, burrowing deeper into the couch cushions. He sighs and rises, rummaging around in one of the storage areas. Moments later, you’re covered with a blanket, your feet tucked in. He takes his seat next to you once again and settles, his arm up on the back of the couch. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur. You’re not sure how audible you are. 

A hand pats your calf, and you know he’s ignoring you. 

After a while, you really do fall asleep, the security of his presence beside you lulling you into the dark. 

+++

You finish getting ready, walking into the bedroom where Aaron is slipping his belt through the buckle, tightening it with a practiced tug. The worn, gray knit polo stretches across his shoulders as he moves, soft enough to touch, fitted enough to remind you just how unfairly broad he is. The silver watch on his wrist glints under the lamplight as he pulls on the leather.

"Ready?" His voice is low, steady—far too casual for the way his eyes flick over you. “We could drive separately, but I think they’ll buy that I gave you a ride if you don’t feel like taking two cars.”

You step closer, your fingers skimming along the leather of his belt, slipping the excess into the first loop. His muscles tense, just slightly, under your touch. His breath stays even, but his eyes drop—watching your hands, sharp and focused. Not quite surprised. Just… aware.

Your smile widens. "As opposed to what?”

He looks up, masking amusement with mock consideration. “That we’re keeping this grand secret from them that will surely confirm their sincerely held belief that we’ve been sleeping together for ages?”

You hum, tapping the belt at his hips once before letting go. “I think a ride is a much easier pill to swallow.”

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, just the barest brush of your lips against the warmth of his skin. When you move past him, he follows—like he always does, like he always has.

Then, with infuriating ease, his palm finds your backside. A light swat—just enough to get your attention.

You spin fast, forcing him to stop short—his chin retracting, his hands raised in a wordless show of surrender. But his smirk gives him away.

"You keep that up," you warn, tilting your head, “and we’re gonna be late.”

His smirk deepens. Slow. Knowing. "Promise?"

Your stomach flips. You roll your eyes and turn back around, grabbing your coat off the back of the couch. “You drive me nuts,” you tell him, poorly covering your body’s response to him.

Aaron passes you on his way to the door, close enough that the warmth of him lingers. His voice is silk and smirk, low enough for just you to hear.

"As long as I’m driving, baby.” 

You aim a glare at his back. He only chuckles, opening the door for you like the gentleman he pretends to be. But just as you pass, his hand catches you—just a single finger hooked at your shoulder. The warmth of his touch is barely there, but it pins you in place.

You glance up, a question forming on your lips—but you never get the chance to ask.

Aaron tilts his head down, catching your mouth in a kiss that is sweet, slow, and utterly consuming. His palm slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you before stepping into the role of Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief (Even on the Weekends), again.

You exhale softly, a pleased little sound slipping from your throat as your free hand spreads over his chest—broad and steady beneath your touch.

He doesn’t pull away quickly. No, he lingers. Like he’s the one trying to make this last. Like he’s just as reluctant to leave the warmth of home behind.

When he does finally pull back, his lips barely leave yours, his forehead brushing against you as he murmurs, “That should hold us over for a few hours, yes?”

You inhale, eyes still closed, willing your heart to slow. Then, with a smirk you don’t really feel, you shrug and throw on your jacket. "If you say so.”

Aaron huffs, rolling his eyes like he’s unaffected—but you can see it in the tight set of his jaw, in the flicker of his fingers like he’s fighting the urge to pull you back. He locks the door behind you, ushering you into the car. He’s a real gentleman about certain things - ensuring you never touch a door handle again seems to be one of them. 

Aaron’s hand finds yours the second he’s settled in the driver’s seat. Palm up. Waiting. Like it belongs there. You don’t squeeze, don’t fidget. Just let the heat settle between your fingers, a quiet tether in the space between you as the houses blur past the windows.

When you pull up to Dave’s, you release him without a word.

By the time you step onto the driveway, you’ve put enough space between you to avoid any hint of suggestion.

You reach the door first, knocking and letting yourself in. “Hello!” 

“In here!” You hear JJ and Penelope chirp in unison and you toe your shoes off, heading toward the kitchen. 

Dave has several stations set up, and to your untrained eye it looks like you’re making carbonara. He has a demo colander of pasta on the counter, pancetta and eggs out, and three bottles of (very) nice wine on the island near the barstools. You take a seat next to Penelope and Aaron leans on the one beside you, standing behind it. He reaches for a wine glass, setting it in front of you and uncorking the bottle. 

As he pours (generously), you give Penelope a hug and clasp JJ’s hand around Aaron’s back. 

“Thank you,” she says, meeting your eyes. “I know this week wasn’t easy and I really appr-”

“JJ, if you tell me you appreciate that I did the right thing, I’m going to spit in your wine.” 

She snorts. “Alright, fine. But seriously.” 

You take your wine glass by the stem and swirl it a bit, offering it to Penelope for a toast. After you clink glasses, you’re immediately chastised. 

“Wine goes with the pasta! No drunk cooking.” Dave appears out of nowhere, a slotted spoon in his hand. 

You pull a yikes face and place your glass back on the counter, folding your hands in your lap. Aaron clears his throat, hiding a laugh. 

“Thank you both for being on time,” Dave says, looking at you and Aaron. “It’s nice that some people are punctual.”

You share a look with Aaron and he smiles, shrugging. Almost weren’t, but that’s fine.

“Hey!” Penelope says. “JJ and I were punctual!”

“No,” Dave replies. “You were early, which is also rude.” 

Penelope rolls her eyes as you hide a laugh behind your hand. Emily arrives, looking very elegant in her black shawl, and takes a place at the end of the bar, leaning on the counter. JJ pours her a glass of wine and warns her in advance that she’s not allowed to drink it. 

Derek arrives moments later, swinging his keys. “We getting this thing started, or what? “It’s freezing out there.” He comes up behind you, resting both hands on your shoulders. “I dunno,” he says, dragging it out. “You check the weather in LA today? Might’ve been nice—surf, sun, fancy coffee—”

“Are we waiting for Reid?” You ask, pointedly ignoring him. Derek presses a quick kiss to your temple, then Penelope’s in turn, before finding a place to be on the other side of Aaron.

Emily’s mouth twists. “He said he wasn’t sure if he could make it.”

Aaron almost turns his head to look at you, a small crease between his brows as the conversation flows around you. 

“Well,” Dave says, “We can always catch him up if we need to.” 

He takes his place on the other side of the kitchen island, rolling his sleeves and washing his hands. You offer Aaron a little smile and stand, leaning on your chair and mirroring him. When Dave’s done with his little pre-show, he starts. 

"Cooking," Dave announces, dramatically tossing a towel over his shoulder, "is the most sensual art form."

You instinctively reach for your wine glass. Hotch coughs into his fist—probably to hide a laugh and remind you to keep your wine right where it is. You pull your hand back with a little grimace. 

Dave spreads his arms, gesturing to the neatly arranged ingredients. "And these—" he flicks his wrist with the air of a seasoned maestro, "—are my paints."

Penelope, to her credit, tries to keep up. "So, your hands must be brushes."

Dave points at her. "Don’t interrupt."

You bury your laugh in your hand. Emily’s shoulders shake.

Your lips disappear into your mouth as JJ and Emily snort little giggles. Penelope ducks her head and you bump her shoulder. She bumps you back. 

“In a pot of boiling water we cook our spaghetti until it's al dente, firm to the tooth.” He passes out the pasta and you take some, splitting your share with Aaron. He taps his pasta with yours in a little toast, sending you a subtle wink. 

“Here you go”, Dave continues, passing more to JJ and Emily. “Everybody pass it around.” When everyone has some, you take a little bite. “See? Feel the texture.”

“Now…” He turns, headed to the stove. “In a large pan, we fry up our pancetta,” He shows you his work, the pancetta and onions sizzling in the pan. “Keeping a sharp eye that the edges are crisp.”

“But careful not to burn the onions,” Aaron says, a little pasta still in his mouth. 

“Bravo, Aaron!” 

He lights up at the praise, sharing a smile with JJ.

“We saute until translucence,” Dave continues, poking the pancetta with his wooden spatula. 

The doorbell rings and your head whips around with Emily’s.

“Uh-” Derek holds up a hand to stop both Dave and you from moving toward the door as Dave brings the finished pancetta and onions to the pasta. “I got it.” Derek stands and heads to the door. Rossi thanks him in Italian and immediately makes a vaguely Italian noise in JJ’s direction as she attempts to sip her wine on autopilot.

She freezes, her eyes widening as she guiltily replaces her wine glass on the island. Both you and Penelope smother laughter. You snort, and Aaron’s smile widens. 

“Now, we mix in the eggs…” He demonstrates with each mentioned step. “The parmesan… The spaghett… And parsley.” He presents you with the finished dish, tossing it with the tongs. “You see, it's all about timing and rhythm. And if you don't feel yourself doing it properly, please, order a pizza.”

“Sorry I'm late,” Spencer says. To your surprise, he takes the spot next to JJ’s offering her a small, warm smile. Something feels cozy in your chest. 

“Yeah,” Dave says, making a play at exasperated. “And this is why I cook alone.”

Emily raises a tentative hand. “So, uh, when do we get to drink the wine?”

“Almost there,” Dave replies. “Okay. We start at the beginning. You eat what you cook, I'll supervise, but we're gonna do this all together, just like a family.”

“Okay now?” JJ asks, her eyebrows raised.

Dave tips his head and grabs his wine glass. “Now. Salud!”

The entire team takes turns tapping glasses, and ‘Saluds!’ abound. You clink Emily’s, bringing your wine to your lips just as you shift backward—

Right into Aaron.

You feel it instantly, the solid warmth of him against your back, his chest barely brushing your shoulder blade. His hand finds your belt loop, an almost imperceptible tug, guiding you just enough to ease you forward—not pushing, just placing. The motion is so smooth, so practiced, that to an outsider, it looks like nothing at all. But inside, the shift leaves a ghost of heat where he touched you.

You force your body to stay loose, taking another sip of your wine as if you didn’t just feel the deliberate pressure of his fingers hooking into denim.

Meanwhile, Derek is already herding you and Aaron right back together, nudging you toward the station for the pancetta and onions.

“Alright, dream team,” he says, a little too casually. “Make yourselves useful.”

Aaron barely reacts, stepping into place beside you, reaching for a mixing bowl as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

You follow suit, grabbing an unlit match from the cabinet and holding it between your teeth as you start on the onion.

“Does that actually work?” JJ asks.

You nod, talking around the matchstick. “As long as you ‘reathe through your ‘outh, it works.”

“Cool!” Penelope says. “How?”

“S’encer!” You call, needing all of your focus to not slice your fingers or breathe through your nose. The onion’s bite still sneaks in at the edges of your vision, making your eyes prickle.

Spencer, ever helpful, jumps in. “The end of a match is very absorbent to both odors and other airborne chemicals. When you breathe through your mouth, the tear-jerking enzymes in the onion fumes are absorbed into the end of the match. Therefore, it creates a filter of sorts between you and the onion.” He pauses. “You may need more than one match, though. They stop working in a few minutes.”

You reach blindly for the matchbox, but before your fingers can graze it, Aaron beats you to it, setting it beside your cutting board without a word.

You turn your head just slightly—just enough to see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“‘Ank you,” you mumble through the matchstick.

“Mmhm,” he replies, already moving to his own cutting board, dicing pancetta into thin, even pieces.

He’s too close—not inappropriate, just… unavoidable. The excuse of limited counter space is a weak one, but you both commit to it. His left arm brushes your right with every pass of his knife, his rhythm perfectly matching yours, neither of you needing to adjust.

He finishes first—because of course he does. You shove aside a thought inappropriate for mixed company.

Scooping his diced ham into a bowl, he reaches toward you—his fingers just barely brushing your lips as he pulls the matchstick from between your teeth and replaces it with a fresh one. You get right back to work, rolling your knife over the diced pieces, dicing them nice and small.

“That should be sufficient,” he says, like it was purely transactional.

For a moment, he lingers, watching you clamp it between your teeth with absolute seriousness, your brow furrowed in concentration. Something about it—your stubborn commitment to such a tiny, ridiculous trick—makes the corner of his mouth twitch. It’s painfully endearing, in a way he’d never admit aloud.

But if he let himself, he might’ve smiled.

Your lips twitch, fighting a smirk. Careful.

He takes your diced onions next, dropping them into the bowl with the pancetta, neatly sealing them into a baggie before tucking it into the fridge.

It’s seamless, effortless, the way you move around each other, like you’ve been cooking together for years.

Luckily, Dave’s kitchen is big enough for the six of you to move freely, taking sips of your wine as you cook. When the prep work is done, Aaron steps just behind you, just past you, his hand briefly finding your lower back as you dump the pancetta and onions into the pan. 

You both pretend you don’t notice.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? For two people who aren’t supposed to be interested in each other, your reactions to each other have never been proportional. 

Across the kitchen, Dave catches it all.

He’s been watching—casually, of course, a sip of wine here, a flick of the spoon there—but he sees the way Aaron’s fingers hesitate just a beat too long, the way your eyes stay on his as the new matchstick slides between your teeth. He sees the small tell in Aaron’s posture, how he angles toward you like it’s second nature.

Derek chops absentmindedly, lost in conversation. He glances up to check in with the rest of the team, paired off on their own individual tasks. 

Derek pauses mid-chop, watching as Aaron’s hand ghosts along your lower back in a casual, absentminded gesture. His touch is feather-light, almost not a touch at all, guiding you to the side as he reaches for the olive oil.

Emily looks up, following his gaze, catching just the tail-end of the moment. The way your movements align just a little too naturally. The way neither of you react. Her brow furrows, her grip tightening slightly on the knife handle.

Nothing overt. Nothing damning. But there’s something…

Different.

"Do you see—" Emily starts, voice low.

"Yep," Derek mutters, still watching.

For years, the tension between you and Aaron had been palpable, practically another living thing on the team, as obvious as a flashing neon sign to everyone but the two of you. Your colleagues had watched you hover in each other’s orbit, lingering glances, excuses to be near each other, the charged silence of things unsaid and left unacknowledged.

The unspoken yearning, the infuriating, barely restrained pining—gone. Excuses to be near each other have turned into excuses to be as far as reasonably possible. No more loaded eye contact or restrained body language; no more carefully measured inches of distance that still somehow felt too close. 

Emily and Derek exchange a look.

"Huh," Emily murmurs.

"Yeah." Derek shakes his head slightly, glancing back down at the parsley.

Penelope’s head turns, oblivious in the extreme “What?” She says, too loudly. Derek and Emily shush her, but you look over anyway. 

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Derek and Emily say in unison, finding a little tupperware for their parsley. They place it next to the other parsley dish, standing back for now. Penelope looks confused, but you just shake your head. 

Nosy.

Aaron removes the pancetta from the heat, bringing it over to the trivet. “Pancetta’s ready for pasta!” He says, stepping back. 

“Almost done!” JJ calls over her shoulder. She’s testing some of the spaghetti, letting it dangle off her finger to cool it off before she takes a bite. 

You bring over the eggs and invite the others to help you separate, laughing as the egg whites get all over your hands as you let the egg yolk sit in your palm, the whites running through your fingers and into the sink. Derek offers a bowl and you plop the egg yolk in, letting Penelope have a turn. 

Looking over your shoulder, you shoot a smile at Aaron and idly threaten him with your eggy hands. He holds his hands up, blindly reaching behind him for a towel and throwing it at you. With another laugh, you catch it and get the egg white off, your hands soon returning to their clean, dry state. You throw the towel back at him and he whips it over his left shoulder with a wide smile.

When the eggs are all separated, the pasta is finished. Spencer dumps the hot water and pasta through the waiting colander in the sink. Emily grabs some pasta with the tongs, dropping it in the pan with the pancetta and onions. Penelope and JJ grab the eggs, mixing it while Spencer adds the parsley. You grab a healthy amount of parmesan and sprinkle it over the top, looking to Dave for approval. 

“Bravo, bambini!” He says. “Grab a plate, serve yourselves. Good work.” 

The mood is jovial and playful as you all get settled at the table, reaching over each other and pouring more wine. JJ asks for some bread and you pass it over, pouring olive oil and balsamic vinegar in one of the little dishes and passing it over as well. 

Aaron spots you, taking the oil bottle from you and filling the dish nearest him. Despite your best efforts, he landed next to you. 

Your shoulder brushes his as you reach for the salad. He leans back automatically, giving you space, but there’s the briefest of moments where neither of you move. You recover quickly, picking up the bowl and passing it to Penelope. 

“Sorry for the reach, Hotch,” you say, as nonchalantly as possible. 

(You fail.)

“No problem.”

(He does too.)

"Hey—" You smack Derek’s hand as he nabs a bite of your pasta. "You have your own!"

"You let Hotch take some," he fires back, pointing. 

"I did no—" You turn—just in time to catch Aaron swiping a crispy little piece of pancetta off your plate and popping it into his mouth.

Your jaw drops. "Oh my god!"

Aaron, chewing, raises an eyebrow like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

"Aaron Benjamin Hotchner," you declare, scandalized. "You keep your hands to yourself."

Something lights up in his eyes and you level him with a glare. 

Penelope “oohs” at him. “You just got middle-named, sir.”

Aaron lets out a laugh and shakes his head, taking a sip of his wine. You feel wholly undignified and thoroughly attacked. Even then, your lack of dignity came at a fair price. Spencer is smiling, and better yet, smiling at you and JJ and Aaron in turn. 

Worth it. 

+++

tagging: @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @duchesschameleon @ssaic-jareau @viennasolace @youngcowisland @beyscape @reidfile @littlemisskavities @acidicbloody @sochalant @lessonincanvases @froggiefruitcake @realtrashcan

[scorpioriesling]

Invisible String - Part 1

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Eris x reader

Warning(s): light angst, some involving a child being upset. Please be advised; future parts might not be suitable for all audiences. Proceed with caution.

Summary: You'd taken the nanny position for the royal family over a year ago, not expecting what would come of it or how close you'd grow to the child you cared for. Things became tough for Eris when his wife left him and his daughter, and he found it increasingly harder to raise Riley himself. He soon realizes, you've provided a lot more than the typical job description duties for his daughter... and maybe for him, too.

SR’s Note: I added in the advisory so that younger / uncomfortable readers won't begin the series without knowing or expecting potential risks in content to come. For those who enjoy or look forward to content as such -- get excited! Nonetheless, I hope readers will enjoy this series that came to me in a dream one night as I wait for the poll results from this week's THTH post to come through. (; Much love to all.

Tags: @cynthiesjmxazrielslover (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It was like any other day in the West Wing of the Forest House, this weekday the same as many others you’d experienced here over the past year or so that you’d been employed here. The warm glow of the autumn sun painted the cherrywood floors in an amber glow; so beautiful and red, but nothing compared to the red head of hair that bounded over to you on little legs.

“A picture!” Her sweet voice rang out, and you turned to peer down into those big, round eyes of hers. She smiled up at you, her arms outstretched with a piece of paper at the end of it. You gasped, setting down the butter knife and bending down to her level.

“Oh my goodness Miss Riley,” you said and she beamed, her tiny, four-year-old teeth peeking out from behind her lips as you admired her drawing. It was similar to many you’d received before; a crooked drawing of you, holding hands with a crooked stick drawing of Riley. You knew who was who, of course — she made sure to draw a little crown atop her head, obviously.

“You keep it?” She asked, and you smiled at her, nodding in approval.

“Oh absolutely I’ll keep it! This is a work of art!” You said, and she jumped up and down excitedly, twirling in circles before she eventually got too dizzy and stopped. She hadn’t noticed you’d stood, resuming her lunch preparations as she recentered her gravity.

“Y/N I’m hungryyyyy,” she said, and you smiled softly to yourself, placing the top slice of bread on the sandwich in finality.

“I don’t suppose you’re ready for some lunch, hmm?” You ask, and she races to the dining room, stopping at the edge of her chair and throwing her hands in the air. You set down her plate, rolling your eyes at her silly rituals. She’d done this since you’d begun working for her father, insisting on your help though she was more than capable of needing it now.

“Riley — you know you’re grown enough now to get in your chair—“

“Pleeeeease,” she begs, her arms still above her head. “I like when you make me fly.”

You sigh, smiling as you lift under her arms and place her in her chair, her eyes wide as she takes in the plate before her.

“Ham! Yummm! My favorite; thank you, Y/N!” She says, smiling at you before grabbing her little fork and digging into her sliced peaches. You fold your hands, gazing at the small child in wonder.

“You are very welcome Riley — and very good job remembering your manners.” You praise her, and she continues to eat her food in contentment.

You’d spent the rest of the evening doing many of the same activities you’d do with Riley most evenings; playing dolls, braiding her hair how she liked, walking around the palace. Some days, she would ask to play outdoors — this was one her father was a bit iffy on, but since the day was nice, you figured no harm no foul. After a while in the gardens, you’d gotten Riley down for a nap, braided her hair, played dolls, and were cleaning up dinner when the front door to the West Wing opened.

“Daddy!”

As if on cue, every doll and stuffed animal was abandoned on the living room floor, the sound of little footsteps pattering across the cherrywood in anticipation as quick as the beats of your heart in your chest.

“Bunny,” Eris’ silky soft voice floated through the foyer and you rounded the corner in time to see him scoop his daughter up, her laughter ringing out as he peppered her cheeks with kisses.

“Daddy! Tickles!” Riley laughed, and when he finally relented and set her down, she ran right over to you. His gaze met yours, his professional yet gracious smile meeting yours in greeting.

“Y/N,” he said.

“Hello,” you said. No matter how many times you’d seen him come home, you’d never quite figured out a way of greeting friendly enough, yet still professional, but not too weird to use in front of Riley.

“Daddy, I made a drawing,” Riley beamed. Your heart sank a bit, realizing this repeat situation as if it happened yesterday. She’d drawn you so many photos, so many pictures of you and her together — but the fridge you’d used daily to make lunches, dinners, snacks — it was bare.

“Well, also,” You caught Riley’s arm lightly as you bent to her height, pausing her from running to grab her creation. “We brought in a surprise, right?” You reminded, thinking of the few Honeycrisp apples the two of you had picked earlier for her father from the grove as a surprise. Riley contemplated for a moment, then it looked as though a lightbulb went off in her head and she nodded.

“Daddy — I be right back 'kay,” she rushed out before darting for the kitchen, and Eris chuckled. You stood, picking at your sweater as you watched her run off. When you looked to Eris again, he looked to you in the same moment.

“You have no idea,” he started, pausing as if to find the right words as he stepped further into the room. “How much you being here really helps.” He focused on you then, and you shifted under his intense gaze.

“I mean… I… no where else I’d rather be, right?” You smiled lightly, and Eris loosed a breath, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m actually, really, glad to hear that, uh,” he chuckled. “Well, I um,” he cleared his throat as Riley appeared again in the entryway, hands behind her back and a grin on her face.

“Okay daddy, here is the surprise, okay?” She said. His brows rose, and he crouched down as she stepped closer, finally revealing a leaf, bright red in her little fingers. His mouth opened in shock, and she doubled over in a fit of laughter, Eris watching in admiration. You watched the precious girl, her wild sense of humor even at the age of four. You’d wondered, under his professional exterior, did she get that trait from her father, too?

“Alright my dear,” Eris said finally, standing and picking the girl up to carry in his arms. “It appears that it is your bedtime, hmm?”

You were glad he was here to do it this evening — many nights, if her father wasn’t home, you were the one at the other end of her protests, having to explain away his absences and assure her that he would, and you promised, come kiss her on the head when he got home.

You decided to finish scrubbing the last of the dinner dishes, laying them to dry when footsteps behind you caught your attention.

“You always do more than I’ve ever asked Y/N, seriously. I can’t thank you enough.”

You glanced quickly over your shoulder, trying not to look to long at the Autumn Court heir watching your every move.

“It’s nothing, really — it’s only dishes.”

In a matter of strides, he is beside you, leaning against the very counter you’re working at.

“You know what I mean.” He pauses, looking down before continuing. “I don’t know what Riley…” he sighs. “When Selene left us, I… it was, very tough. On all of us. Riley, she… I don’t know how I could’ve done it without your help.” He says quietly. You silently set down the plate you’d been washing, looking at him with knitted brows.

“Don’t ever feel bad for something someone else has done to you,” You say, your heart clenching at the reminder of his wife — well, ex-wife, you supposed — leaving him just over a year ago. Leaving him behind and her daughter.

Your chest ached.

“She made a poor decision. Riley is a lovely little girl, she’s learning so much, and truly she’s a joy to be around. This job isn’t work, for me; I really, really enjoy spending time with her, Eris. Don’t worry about it.” Your eyes meet his again, and you swear you see silver lining them. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, biting it before turning to face you.

“Live here full time, then.”

You set the plate on the drying rack, reaching for a fork and dunking it into the sink.

“Why would I need to? I’m already here five days a week-“

“But you could be here seven, look — please, at least just for a few months while I settle a few things with the other courts. I just need someone here for Riley in case I’m not here as often, and I will absolutely prepare living arrangements for you, and pay you extra, and-“

“You’re being serious?” You say, your hands stilling in the sink water. Eris stares at you pleadingly. You look down at the water. Sure, you took this job and basically it became your life. Did you have much going on outside this job? No. Was your lease almost up anyways? Yes.

You sigh, taking the fork out and laying it on the drying mat. You wipe your hands on your apron, extending one to Eris. “Fine, it’s a deal-“

He takes your hand, pulling you in and embracing you instead. The thin material of his button down does not leave much to the imagination, every toned muscle beneath…

His hands slowly rub up and down on the small of your back, and you feel your cheeks flushing at the rather intimate contact. You wrap your arms around his neck, his voice nearly inaudible next to your ear as he whispers,

“Thank you.”

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Within a week, you'd completely uprooted from the ramshackle apartment you'd been renting on the outskirts of the Autumn court and moved yourself into the West Wing. This place felt like more of a home to you anyway, its inviting ambience, the warmth that radiated from the forest surrounding it; the people inside, especially the little girl you'd grown to care so much for over the past year.

"Y/N's moving innnn, Y/N's moving innnnn," Riley sang, skipping down the hallway barefoot in another one of her play-pretend princess dresses. She had a closet full of real gowns, hand-sewn by the seamstresses that worked in the palace themselves -- however, the little girl preferred the itchy costumes to the real ones reguardless.

"I am almost done, I promise, then we will play," you huffed a breath, sweat clinging to your tank top as you crossed the room once more. Eris was gracious to give you your own space, but... so much of it? You weren't used to having a bedroom the size of an entire apartment, let alone one so ornate. Not to mention, one just down the hall from his master room.

You tried not to think too hard about it.

"Y/N! A cookie?" Riley called, and you sighed, looking around at your remaining boxes. You'd just have to tend to them later.

"Riley," you said, rounding the bend and approaching the kitchen where Riley stood near the counter. "It's nearly dinnertime -- you know we can't-"

"Pweeeeease?" She pleads, her round, honey-colored eyes looking to you with such agony. You sigh, scooping her up and sitting her on the counter.

You hang your head between your shoulders, shaking it lowly. "Riley, your father is gonna kill me..."

She squeals in delight, wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you close, her little body buzzing with excitement.

"I love you!"

Your heart warms, and you hold her tight, brushing a hand over her soft strawberry-blonde locks. Its moments like these that you wish you could show Eris, your "boss", your "employer" that this job really doesn't feel like work. You truly enjoy what you do, and his daughter is a magical little thing.

"I love you too, Riles." You say, and she releases you, looking over her shoulder toward the jar of red velvet cookies with a mischevious grin. You reach over, taking the lid off and plucking one from the container. Her legs kick against the cabinets in anticipation, soft giggles of glee coming from her as she watches you break it in half before her.

"Start with half, okay?" You say. She nods, taking it from you and immediately putting it in her mouth. You can't help but smile, watching as she motions to the other half.

"Share with you?" She says. You place a hand on your chest at her words, but hold the cookie out to her anyway.

"Riley, that is very kind of you to offer to share with me! Thank you," she takes it quickly nonetheless. "But, I'm not very hungry right now. I think you should have it."

She nods. "Okay." It's devoured in seconds, the only evidence a few crumbs on the counter. Riley giggles as she watches you brush the crumbs into your hand. Her little pointer finger comes to her lips.

"Shhh," she says, and you grin at her. "Don't tell daddy, okay?" You nod in agreement.

"Okay Miss Riley," you say, dusting your hands off over the trash can. "I won't tell him."

You went for another walk around the Forest House, played tea party and braided hair all before dinner that evening, which was proving to be rather intriguing to the little one that day. She watched as you cut carrots, questioned every spice and oil you'd dumped into the pot, and offerred her assistance more than a few times.

"Is butternut squash soup your favorite?" You ask. Riley cocks her head to the side, playing with a loose string on her Princess Belle dress.

"Hmm... no, it's okay though." She decides, and you continue stirring over the stove.

"I wonder what has you so intrigued in cooking this evening?" You ask, and she sighs, sitting on the wodden floor with her legs stretched out before her.

"I want to do something," she groans, and you nod, trying to understand what she is getting at.

"Mhm, what do you mean by that?"

"I want to... can we do something fun tomorrow?" She asks, and you shrug.

"Well, I like to think we have a lot of fun everyday together, wouldn't you say?"

"Yesssss," she lets out an exasperated sigh. "But I want to go somewhere fun with you. Me and you. Oh, and daddy. When is daddy coming home?" She asks. You chew the inside of your cheek, glancing to the wall clock. He'd routinely arrive around or just after Riley's bedtime -- 8 PM. However, since asking you to move in last week, he'd been coming home later and later. It seemed that he really did need your help with whatever he had going on, the gravity of it much bigger than you could understand.

"I'm... not sure, Riles." You answered, and she huffed.

"He's never home to play with me." She frowned, and you glanced down at her.

"Well, that's not true, he-"

"He never even comes home for dinner." She crosses her arms, her angered expression softening a bit. You set down your spoon, tucking your hair behind your ears as you kneel down before the upset child.

"Riley," you say calmly. "Your father just has a lot going on right now sweetheart, okay? I promise he loves you very much-"

You stop talking when you notice a silent tear roll down her cheek, and your heart threatens to break right in half inside your chest. You reach for her, and she turns to putty in your hands, allowing you to pull her close and hold her in your embrace.

"Oh, Riles," you say soothingly. "Please don't be upset sweet girl," you plead. She sniffles, her cheek wet against your skin above your top. You run your fingers along her hair, quietly comforting her until she eventually calms down. She pulls back, looking up at you with her puffy, but dry eyes and it takes everything in you to offer her a smile as your finger brushes lightly against her cheekbone.

"There she is," you say, and she smiles a little. "Miss Riley is back again." She grins, folding her hands in her lap as her gaze locks just beyond your face. She reaches out, her tiny fingers grazing the shell of your ear before her brows knit and she reaches for her own.

"Yours are not... no... you have..." she searches for the right word, the events prior not seeming to matter now that they've passed. You guide her fingers to the top of her ear, and then gesture to yours.

"Pointy," you say. "Your ears are pointy. Mine are different -- they are round." You explain, and she nods, processing the terms.

"Po-in-ty," she says. She looks at your ear again. "Why do you have... uh..."

"Round?"

"R-ou-nd," she continues. "Ears for?" She asks. You smile softly at her, those innocent eyes having no idea the life she has in store for herself to come.

"Because Riley," you explain. "There are different types of people; some people, like your father and-" you stop, not even wanting to approach the subject. "...your father is going to be a King someday. You, well, you are a Princess." She smiles and nods as if this is already a known fact to her.

"Then, there are people like me. I'm just... well, I'm me." You shrug. "I'm just a fae like anyone else." Riley frowns.

"You are a Princess too," she says, and you chuckle.

"No, Riley, only when we play dress up and I borrow one of your crowns. You are the Princess in real life." She stands, her hands on her hips.

"Y/N is a Princess," she says, looking at you eye-to eye. You raise your eyebrows, not knowing where this is going.

"Riley-"

"Princess lives in the castle." Riley says, beginning to jump up and down. You nod, reaching up to turn off the stovetop heat under your surely burnt soup.

"Yes, but-"

"You live in here with me!" She squeals, twirling in circles. You shake your head.

"Riley, I only live here because your dad asked me to move in-"

"Y/N is a Princess! Y/N is a Princess!" She starts chanting. You sigh, making to stand and remove the soup pot from the stove.

"Riley, you are the Princess! There's only one Princess!" You say loudly over her shouting, and she stills, her devilish grin only cause for concern.

"Then... Y/N is a Queen." Riley gasps, her little hand flying to her mouth as though she's just thought of the greatest idea in the world.

"Y/N is the Queen! In a castle! With the Princess! Is me! and, and, and daddy! he's, he's-" she pauses her jumping and chanting, her hand splayed on the wall to catch her breath.

"Ohmygosh I have to go draw-"

"Ohhh no ya don't," you say, setting down her bowl of soup on the table in front of her and plopping her into her chair before she could take off down the hallway. "Dinner first, young lady."

She groans, quickly shoveling soup into her mouth. "Ughhh, okay, fine." She grins, looking sidelong at you. "I will eat your delicious soup, my Queen," she says in a silly victorian accent, and you let out a laugh at her rediculousness. She giggles too, continuing her comedy. "I will eat, and eat and eat, I will eat because I am a Princess, and you are a Queen, and soon, the King will be home, and we won't tell him about the cookie-"

The two of you are too busy giggling furiously over her sillyness that you don't hear the front door swing open, or the footsteps leading inside. It's only when you hear his whiskey-smooth voice that you turn from the dining table, your face flushing at the sight before you. Much to your delighted surprise, the handsome red headed male leaned against the dining room archway had arrived home much earlier today than either of you had expected.

His small smile was his only greeting, his tousled locks and few undone buttons revealing the exhausting day he'd surely had before he said; "I wasn't aware that I had a Princess and a Queen dining at my table tonight?"

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

[artethyst]

~ Leaves In A Sky Full Of Stars ~

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister!OC/Reader

“Enjoying fatherhood Brother?” Came Lucien’s sarcastic voice at the sight of Eris- High Lord of Autumn, nothing less than dishevelled.

Eris offered him no response, the circles beneath his eyes telling his brother enough before you swanned in with a fluffy bundle secure in your arms.

If his son were not so cute, he might have cursed the boy for robbing him of sleep for the past week, a new habit he had seemed to adopt whenever he was left alone in his cot at night.

Despite the Healer’s advising against it, saying it was very much normal and the boy would only grow needier, Eris couldn’t stand to hear his child’s pained cries.

He knew how it felt to feel abandoned.

Unloved.

His son would never feel the same.

Even if his Mate berated him for turning soft or some of the more traditional- slowly withering branches of Beron’s Advisory circle scathingly judged him for it.

Motherhood looked good on you- a warm glow to your unblemished skin and new life within those once lifeless cheeks that had struck Eris with horror as he had been forced to watch you- lying there, bleeding out.

The Healers telling him neither you nor your babe would survive.

And whilst he did not tell you, the memory of it, even now, months later, left him sleepless. And despite trying his very best never to think of how you looked- the thought of you ever being taken from him, he still felt sick at the thought.

He might have envied how naturally parenthood had come to you- how beautiful you still were despite it all, but he loved you too much to ever care about his own troubles in comparison.

As you approached, Eris instinctively wrapped a strong arm around your waist, if he had been protective before and especially during your pregnancy, it was nothing compared to now.

It was as though he still needed visceral proof- feel the warmth of your beating heart next to his to remind himself you were well.

Well and alive.

Lucien didn’t have the heart to tease his brother about it.

Baby Silas began to stir against your chest, his wide amber eyes curiously blinking as his little fist moved to his yawning lips, slobbering over his knuckles with a guiltless, dimpled smile.

He made little cooing noises, small tufts of red hair delicate and curled atop his head as he snuggled further into the winter fur blanket Kallias and Viviane had so generously gifted him.

You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his rosy cheek, wishing you could stay clasping him close forever.

“He is a curious child,” you began, passing over the bundle to your brother-in-law who had come to visit his nephew, “though, grumpy like his father,” and as if on cue, Silas’ small brow furrowed and pink lips pouted when he felt himself being jostled from the warmth of his mother’s arms.

The pair of them ignored Eris’ scowl as Silas wiggled in his Uncle’s arms, the Emissary chuckling as the boy began chewing on a strand of his long hair, face determined as he dribbled.

“Brainless, just like his father too.”

You laughed as Lucien bounced the boy, pressing yourself into your Mate’s side further, placing a light kiss to the underside of his jaw.

You noticed his withdrawal, and whilst it was not unusual for him to be detached, it was not like him to be so solemn.

Especially with you around.

“Er, are you alright?” He tilted his head down to face you, your twinkling violet eyes marred with concern and was forced to bury the thought of the Mother snatching his happiness from him along with his childhood traumas.

“I am fine, My Love.” He mused pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, you weren’t convinced but did not push him. “Are you?”

“How could I not be?” You teased, fondly watching as Lucien spoke animatedly to Silas, grimacing as the child tugged on his hair in excitement as the man he viewed nothing more than the tall person with the same hair as his daddy and with funny deep voice spoke to him. “I have all I could ever want.”

Eris smiled- a real smile.

He couldn’t help but chuckle watching his brother and his son, heart overflowing with love as his wife stood beside him, flooding their bond with the same mirth.

Everything he had gone through- all that he had fought had been worth it.

For this.

And watching his baby- a near copy of him with the woman he loved most’s infectious smile, bringing a childish peace to his brother’s all so often annoyingly smug face reminded him of all his sacrifices.

And he knew he would do it all again.

-

With Lucien cutting his trip short, having felt a desperate tug on the bond from a freshly Mated Elain, the three of you were left alone.

You were absentmindedly sprawled over Eris, lulled into a light sleep by the warmth he emitted.

He didn’t have the heart to wake you.

Silas too was asleep against his chest, his little soft snores almost comically in sync with his mother’s.

Eris let his fingers run comfortingly along the back of his son’s head, relishing in the soft tufts whilst supporting his small neck with the other.

The babe whined contently in response, his drool pooling against his father’s tunic as the older male could only trace the boy’s perfect face with a calloused fingertip. Silas’ soft flesh a welcome sensation against his scarred skin.

The High Lord took a deep breath of his own, relishing in the scent of his beloved-a fresh jasmine and amber, and his son’s- a light cinnamon with hints of a fresh bloom.

A subtle mix of both of his parents’.

And with the two of you by his side, there was no longer a heaviness in his heart, but one in his throat as tears of relief and pure love gathered in his sharp eye.

[silverzoomies]

Screwball

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: smut, slow burn, kissing, hand jobs, loss of virginity, temperature play, mutant reader, ice powers, porn with plot, clunky writing

word count: 14,151

a/n: im so late posting this. i meant to finish this one like a month ago. but it's already september !! and a heatwave fic seems so out of season !! oh well !! i hope someone out there enjoys this. i went through hell tryin' to finish it. but i'm pretty happy with the way it panned out,,

apologies for the usual: clunky writing, slow as fuck execution, potentially ooc dialogue, etc etc etc kbgsjbdghsoiheg

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Westchester, New York had never seen such a record breaking heat wave.

And in all his reckless, fast paced years up to the ripe age of thirty, neither had Peter.

His fragmented memory is jam packed. Cluttered with disorganized checklists of every place he’s ever been. Not that he’s bragging or anything. But Peter’s basically seen the entire world, and then some. If one were to count those gnarly, X-Men space missions. He’d gone places no non-mutant could ever conceivably dream of reaching. From the deathly cold peak of Mount Everest, to the blistering sands of the Sahara desert itself.

Even with all that collected experience, Peter’s a hundred percent sure; he’s never faced summertime heat as insanely lethal as this.

Okay, sure. Maybe declaring Westchester as hotter than the Sahara might be a bit of a stretch. But to Peter’s credit, this heat wave is dangerous enough to warrant a citywide advisory. Which, in layman’s terms, means: don’t get ballsy. Unless you wanna end up fryin’ like an egg on the sidewalk.

The weather outside is so grisly, in fact, the X-Men themselves had to call their latest mission quits. Imagine that! Crazy, right? A fierce team of mutant heroes, capable of taking on behemoth sized sentinels. And even they didn’t dare another second in the heat.

Peter detached himself from the concept of religion ages ago. But thank the mysterious powers above, whoever they may be. Because he was legit two seconds away from collapsing to the ground, in a boiled heap of skin and bone.

He stumbles off the X-jet on wobbly legs. And no joke, Peter swears his muscles have somehow melted into jelly. It’s supremely embarrassing, the way he struggles to keep up with the team as they move ahead. They all stop before going upstairs, waiting to reconvene with Xavier. Organized in a careless, half circle; the X-Men look as though they’ve returned from an Olympic marathon. Their bodies exhausted, and blanketed in buckets of sweat.

Naturally, on account of Peter’s super dope, mutant genes; his body functioned at a nonstop rate of super sonic speed. As a repercussion, his average body temperature burned leagues hotter than any non-mutant’s. It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to dread the tormenting heat of the summer season.

In the blazing eye of a dangerous heat wave, swarming the city like an apocalyptic storm; Peter’s absolutely certain – like, for sure, he’s teetering on the brink of death. A miserable, stewing-in-your-own-sweat kinda death. Leave it to Logan to recite the eulogy at Peter’s funeral. No doubt, Wolvie would have nothing but positive things to say about Peter after he died. Most definitely.

Peter might be a teensy bit freaked out actually. Since he had no idea he was even capable of experiencing heat exhaustion. It almost makes him paranoid. Like a hypochondriac with a chest ache. In an attempt to force his recovery, Peter chugs through exactly thirteen bottles of dollar store water in a flash. The source of his stash? A stainless steel, mini fridge in Hank’s lab.

He knows Hank’s gonna be totally peeved when he finds the fridge raided clean. But Peter doesn’t bother worrying about that right now. Instead, he makes a mental reminder: Water bottles. An IOU. One he’ll probably forget about within the next two seconds. And never get around to fulfilling.

Professor Chucksters is talking, but Peter can’t find it in himself to listen to a single word. Whatever momentous info the ol’ baldy drops, flies a thousand miles over his feverish head. Peter cranes his neck back in overheated agony, lazily chugging Hank’s last remaining bottle of crisp, cold water. The smooth bite of that cold down Peter’s throat makes him exhale with relief through his nose.

Halfway through, he stops to shower his head in the rest. Letting chilly droplets rain down over his silver hair. Sharp tingles erupt down his neck and across his shoulders. Peter shudders, humming in delight to himself.

Oh. Shit. Wait…

Peter then comes to the regrettable realization that, in a heatwave so hazardous; water is a necessity to be shared.

No shit, blockhead.

Now, mind you, Peter isn’t known for his forethought. He’s pretty overzealous. Had he taken time to stop and think for a hot sec…yeah. Sure. Maybe he should’ve been more mindful of his suffering teammates. Oopsie daisies.

Much like a careless dog, Peter shakes off the cold drops soaking his hair. Sprinkles of water splash all around him, with Jubilee caught in the line of fire. She jumps in place with an abrupt, but silent exclamation of ‘ew!’ Shooting Peter a look of burning fury. Damp strands of Peter’s hair fan over his eyes. He runs his fingers slowly through them to give his forehead some air.

Maybe Peter’s a little delusional. Because he swears on his life he catches a red tint in Jubilee’s cheeks. She scoffs, like she can’t stand his bullshit. He throws her a wink. A beat later, she smiles and rolls her eyes.

Peter smirks. Lucky for him, his speedster charm has yet to fizzle out.

The team waits patiently for their opportune moment to flee. It’s obvious they’re all pretty antsy. Probably since they’re dying to change into something lighter. Better fitted for Satan’s city wide celebration of hellfire and brimstone. Anything but the jumpsuits, at least. But that’s just a hunch.

In Peter’s own personal opinion? The most ideal scenario would be to strut around naked, in nothing at all. Sounds awesome, right? Freedom from the suffocation of needless threads! However, societal standards and modern customs definitely wouldn’t allow such debauchery. Not to mention, Peter isn’t super keen on the idea of peeping his teammates in their birthday suits.

Except for Raven, maybe. He never gets tired of looking at those scales. All that blue. Nice.

Oh. And…you. Frankly, Peter’s willing to risk it all just to catch a glimpse of you in the buff.

He swallows a thick lump forming in his throat, sneaking a lightning fast glance in your direction. Observing you with a gawking gaze, Peter ignores the way his heartbeat kicks up to roadrunner speed. Faster than fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. It’s ridiculous.

You’re completely impervious to any heatwave debuffs. Lucky lucky. Standing there without a care in the world, you listen attentively to professor Charlie Brown’s ramblings. Since you’re so distracted, Peter lets his speedy eyes shamelessly wander. Trailing down the glittering, icy blue of your jumpsuit. Uniquely personalized to coincide with your wintry gimmick.

Which doesn’t at all explain why it’s so inappropriately skin tight.

Peter feels himself choke on his next breath. But he’s quick to blame it on the weather. Yeah. It’s just the heat that’s stifling him. Nothing else. Get real, dude.

The sparkling material of your suit hugs your figure a little too perfectly. Complementing every irresistible curve. Peter always thought you looked so ludicrously fine in that suit. If not way, way, way too distracting. Sometimes, he found it ultra hard – ignoring any euphemisms – to maintain focus during missions. Usually because your frosty ass came twinkling in his peripheral, throwing off his mojo.

But let’s chalk Peter’s lack of focus up to his chronic ADD instead, ‘kay?

Heck. Maybe it wasn’t the ADD’s fault. At least, not entirely. Like, cut the bullshit for a sec. Peter doesn’t have a lot of sexual experience. He’s never gone any further than a dozen heated sessions of heavy petting. And from time to time, though he hates to admit it; it haunts him. The way he’s so suppressed. Overflowing with pent-up desire.

Thirty years old and still a virgin? Clock’s ticking, Quickie. No wonder he can’t take his hungry eyes off your body.

Speaking of your body.

Damn, is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

It’s most definitely not you.

Your body naturally radiates a refreshing aura of frigidity. It’s no coincidence, the way your teammates linger so closely in your proximity. Peter can’t really blame them for doing so. You’re the human equivalent of an icebox. Even a touch of your finger could turn the entire X-mansion into a winter wonderland. Part of him wonders why you haven’t done so already. Since you’d be sparing everyone the infernal anguish of this awful heat wave.

Maybe you’re just as absentminded as he is.

Anyway, right about now, Peter desperately yearns to be a long lost tub of neapolitan. Stuffed deep inside your metaphorical freezer.

Which…sounds way dirtier than intended.

Fuck. Alright. Moving on.

Tugging at the collar of his jumpsuit, Peter fights to catch his breath. The fierce heat from outside has somehow seeped its way into the X-Men’s base of operations. Almost like an act of god. Or more like a punishment, maybe.

In desperate need of relief, Peter looks to you once more. He finds himself struck with an ingenious, lightbulb moment then.

A blink, and he bolts, appearing directly behind you. A faint gust of wind flutters your hair. But the breeze fails to even make you flinch. Peter isn’t the least bit subtle with his actions, as he presses his burning body a little too closely into your back. And hoooooooooooooo mama! The sweet relief of your icy presence is so worth any consequences, should they arise.

You whip your head around suddenly, giving Peter a weird look and a once over. He can’t really blame you for staring at him like that. Sure, you’re both teammates. Even family, one might argue. You’re both fighting for the same cause. But you haven’t built an inseparable bond with Peter or anything.

Honestly, he’d be totally down if you did. But that’s neither here nor there.

Peter always thought you were pretty damn cool. In more ways than one, if your glacial mutation was included in the mix. If he were more honest with himself, he would’ve acknowledged his dumb, boyish crush on you an entire ice-age ago. Oh well.

He’s still too much of an awkward spaz for his own good sometimes.

You seem…confused. Staring at Peter as if silently asking him a question. If he had to guess, it’s probably something along the lines of – what the hell do you think you’re doing, you handsome scoundrel? Peter exchanges your puzzled look with an uneasy smile. Dramatically, he fans himself with a hand. Hoping you get the hint, he pokes his tongue out to playfully express his suffocating torment.

Thankfully, you pick up what he’s putting down. As you turn back around, you giggle cutely. Peter breathes an alleviating sigh. He’s left to bask in the glory of your wintry aura. So freeing, and so, so cold. He could kiss you as a thanks, if only you’d let him. But you’ve already directed your attention to Xavier’s painfully long lecture.

Wait. Seriously, how long was this talk supposed to last? It feels like a million years at this point and-

Peter checks the Star Trek watch on his wrist. It’s only been…five minutes. Huh.

The gathering of ye olde X-council draws to a close. At long last! Xavier wraps up his spiel of heroic efforts , world peace , and wonderful work everyone. Bla bla bla. Don’t get Peter wrong. He harbors a lot of respect for the guy. Any other day, and he would’ve found those words somewhat awe inspiring. If not the slightest bit misguided.

But today? Professor, dude, now’s not the time to be preaching words of wisdom. Your nerd club’s literally cooking from the inside out. Give it a rest.

The team wastes no time. As soon as Chuck’s given the go-ahead, they’re gone. High-tailing it upstairs as fast as their tired legs can go. Which isn’t all that fast. At least, not by Peter’s standards. But he’s hella impressed with the enthusiasm.

Unlike everyone else, you move at a frustratingly slow pace. Walking behind you feels akin to waiting too long in a DMV line. Something Peter’s never had to do a single day in his life. And he’s not about to start now. It’s monotonous, and borderline infuriating. But his heightened impatience is probably just another consequence of this outrageous heat.

You take your sweet ass time – and holy moly, did you have a sweet ass – as you ascend to the first floor of the X-mansion. Peter follows after you like a lost puppy, not too far behind. On your way to – presumably – your room, you climb another, dreaded flight of stairs. And since when were stairs a hindrance to a speedster like Peter? He’s never once felt winded making a simple ascent like this. Ever.

Peter’s growing more and more restless. His skin feels sticky and uncomfortable under his jumpsuit, but he can’t rush home to grab a change of clothes. He’s unwilling to risk a race through whatever hellscape lies in waiting outside. No matter how little time it takes him. Not while his lungs are cooking to a crisp.

He aches for the touch of your icy hands. Plain and simple. Nothing to it. Nothing sexual. No strings attached.

Unless…you had a preference for strings. Peter would tie them around his wrists and move like a marionette puppet if you asked. Shit, you want a whole show? Bring out the dancing Muppets.

Midway through your ascent, Peter appears in front of you. He stops you suddenly, leaning casually with his hand against the wooden railing. His other hand rests on his hip. Lamely, he forces himself to act as naturally as he can. Which is virtually impossible, considering the circumstances. But even so, Peter throws you his signature grin and nods his head.

Be cool, dude. Be cool. Ease into it. Just try not to think about how you’re literally baking to death here.

His overheated exhaustion is impossible to miss. Even a dense chimp in a blindfold could sense something’s off about him. The quick rise and fall of Peter’s chest is a dead give away. Revealing how labored his breathing really is. Trickles of sweat race in a tense competition down Peter’s temples. Warm heat pools in his cheeks, and his skin appears ghostly pale.

That…might be the reason you gaze at him like you’re worried sick. As if you’ve seen a haunting, silverette ghost. Peter looks like he’ll pass out sometime within the next five minutes. Realistically, he should probably seek medical attention immediately. But he fakes his aloof casualness anyway.

“Heyyyyy, what’s the haps? Where’re you headed in such a rush, Screwball?” Peter asks, somewhat condescending.

“Screwball?” You narrow your eyes, puzzled, “Oh, y’know, my room probably? I might take a nap. Why?” You laugh despite your confusion, crossing your arms. Fixing Peter with a look that only suggests one thing: suspicion.

Fair enough.

He nods, rapidly tapping his fingers on the railing.

“Cool. Coooooool. I can dig it. Nothin’ wrong with that. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna spend a summer afternoon like this lazin’ around in bed, amiright?”

Good. Nice and easy. Peter should probably stop there, and speak no further. But his hazy, addled mind works on autopilot. The words race past his lips faster than he can keep up.

“It’s hot as hell today too. So, you could totally sprawl out butt ass naked and-”

Too late.

“...Yeah?” Based on your expression alone, Peter knows he’s made a total ass of himself. By some miracle, you don’t deck him with an icy fist of freezing fury. Not that you seemed the violent type to begin with.

“Wait, no-” He abruptly pauses to try and make sense of his thoughts. A stifling heat in the air swarms his head, drowning Peter in hot molasses, “Oh. Gah! What the hell am I even saying? Sorry, that was-uh…that was totally weird, right? Uh, lemme start over-uhm-”

Peter clears his throat, masking his mortification with his speedster charm. Super popular with the ladies. Tested on the battlefield of life and approved. A five star rating. No need to question why he still hasn’t managed to get laid, like ever.

“Sooooooooo…anyway. Y’wanna hang out?” He asks, cheesing a dorky grin.

“You never ask me to hang out with you. But today, of all days…that’s when you do? Everything’s closed, Peter. Y’know, because of the heat advisory? I mean, clearly…you look like you know.” You gesture to Peter himself.

A sweaty sheen coats his skin. He really should’ve taken a cold shower in the communal washrooms. At least before confronting you like this. Man, he really screwed this up. If this interaction falls flat, Peter’s just gonna bail. Maybe he’ll try and stuff himself in that mini fridge of Hank’s. He’d be way better off there. Until Beastie finds him, anyway.

“Uh, yeah? Pffft …no duh. I knew that. But, so what? Just ‘cuz there’s some lame stuff happening outside. That doesn’t mean we can’t do somethin’ totally cool inside. Know what I mean?” Simple and subtle.

“Hm…” You think on his offer for a moment. But it feels like he's aged another thirty years by the time you reply, “At least let me change first, okay? You probably should too! I know you gotta be burnin’ up in that jumpsuit, sweetheart!”

A dopey smile plays on Peter’s lips, pressing into his dimples.

So…sweetheart, eh? That’s a new one.

Politely, you push past Peter to make your way up the remaining stairs. Without any forethought or plan of action, he cuts you off again. He slides across the floor into your visual radius, worn sneakers squeaking along polished wood. Wait…why’s he losing his balance?? Peter doesn’t usually lose his balance. Shit.

Ah. he’s lightheaded now. Great.

You’re close enough that Peter can feel the tempting coldness radiating off your body. Oh, man. If only you’d envelop him in your frosty arms completely. You could even lay on top of him like a blanket of snow post avalanche. Anything. Please. Peter is so beyond desperate to beat the heat, he’d let you pelt him with a flurry of snowballs. At least then, he wouldn’t feel a spark away from igniting into flames.

Staring at him with an impatient look, you tilt your head and furrow your brows. Awkwardly, Peter shifts on his feet. Thick humidity overflows his lungs, close to bursting with the force of an atomic bomb. Breathing is near impossible at this point. Peter may as well bite the silver bullet, before he finally kicks the bucket.

Godspeed, or however the saying goes.

“Hi…sorry. Okay-uh…hear me out, please?” He begs. Peter brings his hands together in front of him like he’s praying at the altar, “This is gonna sound weird. Like, next-level weird. Yer probably gonna think I’m a huge creep. And I’m not tryna freak you out ‘er anything. ‘kay? Like, I totally get it if yer not down for this. ‘Cuz, y’know, we’re not really all that close. Plus, you probably have other stuff you’d rather be doin’ than helpin’ out some loser like me, but-” Peter rapidly stammers over his words.

Way to go, ponyboy. Graceful as ever.

Holding out a small hand to politely silence Peter, you utter his name in the sweetest tone he’s ever heard. Hushed, soft, and so gentle. Your voice is the equivalent of candy to his eardrums. He kinda really digs the way you sound when you talk. So courteous and nice all the time.

Be still, his palpitating heart. Seriously. Calm down. Or he’s literally gonna die.

“Peter?”

“Uhyeahwhat?” He stammers again.

“Are you…okay? You’re sweating like crazy. You look like you’re gonna pass out, dude.”

Peter throws you an ‘ok’ sign with a hand, his grin sluggish.

“Peachy keen, baby.”

He swears with every fiber of his sweltering soul that calling you ‘baby’ made you blush. But, y’know, since he’s a little bit doubtful, he might have to test that theory again. Just to be a hundred percent sure. Break out the ol’ chalkboard and sketch some x’s and o’s like a scientific diagram. Top of the line research. He’s the leading psychoanalyst in speedster charisma. 

“You sure about that?” You ask, arching a brow, holding an easygoing smile.

Taking a few steps closer, you bless Peter with your emanating chill. He doesn’t at all expect you to raise your hand. Peter swallows a thick, blistering lump in his throat. Frozen in place, he watches in slow motion as you bring the tips of your frosty fingers to his chest. Brisk, winter cold spreads in fractals of frost over his jumpsuit.

Freezing heaven on scorching earth. It’s sorta…poetic, in a way. Peter blinks rapidly, caught in a mind-altering daze for a beat or two. Your touch really is like a miracle cure, alleviating that stifling thickness suffocating his lungs.

“W-Wow. Okay.” He chokes awkwardly, cheeks flushing. His skin tingles under his jumpsuit, “Wow. That’s cool. Literally cool.”

“Peter?”

“Mmmmmmhmmm?” He hums, slouching his shoulders. Peter shamelessly relaxes under your wintry touch.

“You’re suffering in this heat, aren’t you? You need me to help you out?”

Stupidly, like a colossal, doofus dumbass, he shakes his head. You’re offering the exact thing Peter came to you for. A golden opportunity. He’s really hit the jackpot now. All he has to do is face the music, and admit it. Just be honest. Say it, doofus!

“Huh? Naaahhhh! Pffft …why would-...hey, I told ya! I’m juuuust peachy, Screwball! Don’t gotta worry about me!”

Hanging in the air by a delicate string, is a tension Peter’s too stunned to identify. Taking another step closer, the swell of your breasts meets his chest. The hand you’ve placed over his speedy heart trails tantalizingly slow, up to Peter’s flushed cheek. His dark eyes flutter closed, and he almost falls face first into your touch.

“I can take care of you, y'know? I really don’t mind, honey. It wouldn’t be an issue.” Your soft voice exudes genuine compassion. The sweet, gentle attention burns his skin to a boiling point, his veins melting underneath.

That unidentifiable tension in the air permeates, thicker than summertime heat. Despite the relieving cold you’ve given him to bask in; Peter finds it even more difficult to breathe. It confuses him, the way you act so nice and considerate. And now? He’s melting entirely.

Literally. No dramatizations. Peter can feel his damp skin drooping slowly off his bones.

He’s already close enough to death as is. What’s with the tenderness and affection, huh? Were you going out of your way to make sure he dies faster? Have some humanity, for Geddy’s sake. Jeez.

“I-uh…I…” Peter stutters, at a loss for words, “I wouldn’t wanna put you out like that, but…uh…”

“Alright. Whatever you say.” You steadily pull your hand from Peter’s face, “Offer’s still on the table, though!”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Why are you pulling away? No, no, no! You can’t pull away! Not yet! Come on!

All at once, the soothing cold you’ve gifted Peter disappears. No thanks to the steaming fever brought upon by his overheated, speedster body. He nearly whines at the loss, pulling his lip between his teeth to stifle any embarrassing noises.

It takes Peter only a millisecond to give in. With a slower reaction time than usual – not really all that slow, from an outside perspective – he darts his hand out in a flash. Peter lightly grabs your wrist, stopping you from retracting your hand any further.

“Wait-” Peter groans, acting hasty. Frustrated with his own awkwardness, he rolls his eyes, “...I’m…I’m literally dyin’ here, okay? Like, no joke. I think my heart might actually explode. And I…kinda can’t breathe right now? So, uhm…can you just, like, touch me? Just a little bit? But not-” He panics suddenly, eyes widening, “N-Not like-...not in a weird way, I swear!”

He almost tacks on a suggestive ‘unless you really want to,’ but decides against it. Better not, lest he dig himself into a deeper hole. So far under the Earth’s surface, he’ll come out the other side. Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe it’s cooler over there.

“And I’ll totally make it up to you. I promise. Pinky swear. Cross my heart, hope I don’t die of heat stroke.” He insists.

You giggle again, cute as can be. It’s not the least bit condescending either, thankfully. Peter feels the weight of a billion megatons finally lift off his shoulders. With a nod, you take his hand in yours. A surprisingly intimate gesture, since the two of you have never done anything quite like this before. Hell, you’ve never spent time with each other one-on-one outside of the X-Men.

“C’mon, you silly goose.” You lightheartedly joke.

Your affection catches Peter off guard. Not that he’s got a problem with it. No siree. In fact, his heart might’ve skipped a few beats. A lazy smile plays at his lips, as you guide Peter down the hall to your room in your usual, slow stride.

Oh, sweet, frosty sanctuary calls.

As soon as Peter steps inside, you quickly close the door behind you. Feeling somewhat out of place in the unfamiliarity of your space, Peter distracts himself with the posters on your walls. He casts quick glances over the silly knick-knacks occupying your desk and dressers. Turns out, your room has a lot of personality. Neat.

He overhears a faint click suddenly. Whipping around to find you locking the door, Peter narrows his eyes in thought.

Huh.

Maybe he’s overthinking. Probably. But doesn’t locking the door like that suggest some…implications? Then again, Peter could be looking at this in all the wrong ways. Like, okay, if he were being realistic? More than likely, you didn’t wanna risk someone walking in. Not while you got handsy with one of your teammates in your room. Totally reasonable, he thinks.

But then-

Leaning your back against the door, you steadily unzip your glittering suit. Pulling the tiny, snowflake zipper down just enough to expose the swell of – Oh, hellllloooooooooo snowy cleavage. Where in the world have you been all his life? Peter has to refrain from whistling.

Okay. You totally did that on purpose, didn’t you? That was completely intentional. And Peter’s definitely not reading too far into things. He’s most unequivocally not letting his attraction to you affect his perception of a simple gesture. Not at all.

He can’t control his lingering gaze. Peter’s droopy eyes follow the slow movement of your hand, his mouth falling agape in a heat-exhausted stupor. Somewhere around him, he can barely make out your voice. But it’s muffled. All noise. Akin to a teacher from a Peanuts cartoon. Bwah Bwah Bwah Bwah.

Peter blinks.

“Huh? Sorry…you say somethin’?” It’s a failed attempt at a recovery. Peter taps his temple, “Gotta couple screws loose in here right now. Y’know, heat’s kinda gettin’ to me.”

You arch a brow, gazing at Peter like you see right through his bullshit. And yeah, he’s gonna go ahead and bet you probably do.

“Uh huh?” You scoff, giggling, “I asked if you’d be more comfortable on the bed, doofus.”

Moving closer to your bed, you bend over to adjust the fuckload of plushies resting on the blankets. Wow. Check that out. It’s like a Toys R Us threw up. A colorful mess of too many plushies for Peter to count. There’s barely any space to lie down, even if he wanted to.

Doing a quick double take, he glances between you, and your occupied bed. Peter sways where he stands, light headed from heat exhaustion. His brows shoot up in unexpected surprise. He whistles through a suggestive grin.

“Waiiiit, seriously?” Peter huffs a charming laugh, “Wow. Didn’t peg you for the direct type, Screwball. Y’wanna take me out to dinner and a movie first?”

“Dinner and a movie? I dunno, Peter. You’re askin’ for a lot.” You giggle again, acting nonchalant. You make your way around the room to a record player on a corner shelf. Neatly organized vinyls are aligned meticulously next to it. As you poke through your collection, you continue, “But sure. Fuck it, right? Why not! What movie?”

Distracted, as he usually is, Peter glances curiously around your room. Framed photos, postcards, and letters adorn your walls. Pinned carefully in place. Some of the photos, he suspects, are of your family. Others, more than likely friends. There’s even a few group photos of the X-Men together, bringing a fond smile to his face.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah?

Wait. Shit. You’re talking again. And Peter totally missed whatever you said.

“Huh?” Peter darts his head in your direction, watching with half lidded eyes as you set up the record player.

“Dude.” You roll your eyes affectionately, chuckling, “I said, is it hot in here, by the way? Just wondering. Since I can’t really tell.”

“Oh-” Peter exaggerates a sigh, “It’s really bad, babe. Like, sooo bad. I’m definitely gonna die if you don’t come over here and put those icebox hands on me, like, right now. Seriously.” He snickers, falling limply backwards into your bed.

Several plushies bounce with the impact of his weight. Some tumble onto the floor. Others topple onto Peter himself, but he leaves them be. He clutches a Beatles Blue Meanie plush to his chest. Breathing in quick, muggy breaths. Peter finds he’s even more consumed by the record-breaking heat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t disintegrated into a pile of ash by now.

“Howard the Duck.” Peter adds, staring at the ceiling in cloudy thought. He twirls the Blue Meanie in his hands.

“Pffft…what?” You laugh, “What are you even-”

“That’s the movie I wanna see. When you take me out? I wanna watch Howard the Duck. Oh! And I want popcorn too. Can’t watch a movie without popcorn. But it’s gotta be one of the big ones. With extra butter. And some candy-”

“ When I take you out. C’mon, really? Dude, didn’t critics totally pan that movie? I swear, I saw that in the paper just recently! It’s such an awful movie, Peter!”

“Uh, yeah? And so what? That’s kinda what makes it the ultimate date move, babe. Check it out – we could have the most awesome time makin’ fun of it.” Peter throws his head back further into your bed, peering at you from upside down, “Ooooh! Did you hear about the duck boobs scene? No joke. I kid you not. It’s got duck titties.”

A mellow tune slowly encompasses the quiet, muggy space of your room. Peter instantly recognizes it from the first few beats alone. Obscured by Clouds. Pink Floyd. …Cool. Peter’s pretty fond of that album himself. It’s not necessarily his favorite, per se. But it’s awesome enough. And it’s perfectly fitting for the mood of sweltering, summertime vibes too, he thinks.

“I didn’t until now.” You sarcastically scoff. Meandering towards Peter on your bed, “Spoilers, dude.”

He brings his head up to look at you. Spreading himself out, Peter knocks more of your poor plushies to the floor. Carelessly, he drops the Blue Meanie plush. Letting him fall to his ultimate demise. Au revoir, his blueness.

“Right. My bad.” He snickers. After a beat, Peter adds, “I love this album, by the way. It’s a nice vibe.”

In your eyes, he must look a lot like a beached starfish. Sprawled out and helpless. Drying to death in the heat of the summertime sun. Peter has his long legs hanging loosely off the edge of your bed. Moving in between those spread legs, you carefully climb onto the bed. Your knee stops just short of his crotch. As you inch yourself further over his body, Peter’s eyes widen. He blinks slowly, feeling hot beads of sweat roll down his temples.

“I know you do.” You grin down at him with a warm gaze. Peter’s lungs threaten to shrink into nothingness.

“Y-You do? Huh…no shit?” He appears put off, raising a silver brow, “How’d you know?”

You shrug, keeping your grin, “Guess I pay more attention to you than you think, hmm?” Perched over Peter with a palm to the sheets, you brush the silver bangs out of his eyes, “You got any limits?”

Peter blinks again, dumbfounded.

“Lim-...uh, what now?”

“Limits, y’know. Like, where am I free to touch? Anything you’re not comfortable with?”

“Oh. Uh…you can…touch me anywhere? It’s whatever yer comfortable with. Yer the one doin’ me a favor here.” he gazes at you with an unsure, sleepy eyed look. Nervously nibbling his lip, tasting the salt of his sweat, “Do you-uh…do you do this kinda thing a lot? Fer…other people?”

“Nope.” You blink down at him with that genuine, sweet smile again. Shrugging, “Just you.”

A subtle aura of addictive cold radiates from your body like a light. Peter can feel the faintest hint of it as you move in close. It teases him, promising sweet relief from the merciless summer heat. With his lips parted, Peter stares longingly into your eyes. His smile reveals a glimpse of his front teeth, as he snickers in disbelief.

“Uh huh. Alright. See, now I know fer sure yer just messin’ with me.” He bashfully laughs.

“Not yet I’m not.” You throw him a coy wink. Innocently, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Which could so easily be misconstrued. Dammit.

Yeah. So, this one’s definitely on him. Peter’s inexperienced, sexually charged instincts immediately jump somewhere totally depraved. He’s a little ashamed of that fact. But hey, who’s the one climbing over him on their bed? Who’s the one fluttering those pretty lashes? Giving him those flirtatious smiles. Come on. Really? No wonder he’s lost his mind in the gutter.

Where do you want me?

Peter’s dark eyes immediately dart to his crotch for less than a second. But it happens so fast, he doesn’t doubt you missed it.

“Uhhhhh…I dunno. I didn’t…I didn’t really think about it? But, you cou- HHHHHHhnnnnnnnaaaaaaa-”

Frigid cold invades the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, as you press your hand gently there. A tiny thumb brushes his adam’s apple. Shivering, Peter bunches his shoulders. Tingling chills surge across his body.

“That’s good. That’s g-great. Awesome. Totally awesome. Thanks. Thank you.” He chokes in a rush, instantly melting into your icy touch.

Relaxing his body in your bed, Peter’s head falls loosely back. He breathes a long sigh of relief, his mouth falling open in a dopey smile. His eyes flutter closed as he laughs. Steadily then, your hand travels lower. Grazing frosty fingertips over his chest. Your fingers soon find the zipper of his jumpsuit, and you tug it down a little further.

That heavy tension from earlier grows a thousand times more distracting. For whatever reason, the mellow melody of Pink Floyd’s ‘When You’re In’ only seems to heighten said tension. Almost like it’s setting a certain kinda…steamy mood. 

Did Peter wake up in some cheesy, VHS porno? He’s definitely living the plot of one.

Peter flutters his eyes open, met with the sight of you on your knees over him. Your gaze appearing heavy, focused intently on your task. You nibble your lip in thought, looking fine as hell while doing so. Pressing your small palm to his chest, you finally grace him with glorious cold again. Right over the sweaty abomination for a shirt he wore under his jumpsuit. He’s almost embarrassed that you’re even touching it.

Using your glacial gift, you manifest more coolness. Allowing it to spread all over Peter’s body. He sucks in a harsh breath, freeing his lungs from their heated asphyxiation.

There it is. Sweet, icy sanctuary, at long last.

“Ohhhhhhhh …” Peter groans, “Nice.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his veins straining under his skin. Digging your nails firmly into his chest, you manifest snowy trails of glittering frost. The biting cold nips at his skin over the fabric of his shirt. Like walking chest first into an arctic glacier.

“Is this helping you much at all?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“You have nooooooooo idea, babe.” Peter breathes a grateful sigh, “This is, like, so amazing. Thanks. I owe ya one.”

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Your freezing hand meets Peter’s sweaty forehead, pressing into his skin. Like you’re checking his temperature with the gentleness of a mother’s touch. Humming to the music, you card your cold fingers through his damp locks. Firmly massaging Peter’s scalp.

Peter lets his eyes drift shut again. His mouth falling open out of his control. Leaving his hair, you bring your attention back to his body. Watching him carefully for any sign to stop, you tug the wet, frost nipped fabric of his shirt. Bunching it up over his neck, exposing his broad chest.

He shoots an eye open, fixing you with a curious look. Feeling hot skin under your soft palms, you slide your hands over his raised pecs. Your fingers gliding in a touch as delicate as powdered snow. It sends sharp chills down his spine. A sensation he’s quickly finding extremely addictive and all too pleasant.

Instantaneously, something clicks in Peter’s brain.

A beat, and your touch goes from relieving, to downright pleasurable. Even sort of…arousing. Peter immediately reacts, arching his back in an abrupt jolt. He laughs his surprise through a broken moan, tossing his head back for the umpteenth time.

“O-Oh, fuck.” He chokes, loud enough to disturb whoever occupies the room next door.

Peter’s so righteously fucked now. Because he really shouldn’t be as turned on by this as he is. It’s just…he’s so boiling hot. Miserable as hell. And not only are you finally breaking him free of hellfire’s tyranny. But you’re also touching him sorta intimately. Peter’s really not immune to attention like this. Especially not from a stone fox he’s super attracted to.

His nipples harden under your frigid spell, perky against the tips of your fingers. Peter hisses, whimpering another moan without meaning to. Your only response is to giggle. Curiously, you tilt your head. Quickly taking notice of the way Peter’s noises have changed in pitch.

They’re more like moans of ecstasy now. Because, well, they sorta are. Whoops.

Lowering your hips, you suddenly move to rest on Peter’s lap. Just to give your knees some much needed rest. His hammering heart threatens to burst straight through his ribcage. Rising from the bed onto his elbows, Peter tries to protest.

“Wait! Wait, don’t sit- hoooohhhh.” A throaty groan slips off his tongue.

The full weight of your lower half drops onto his lap. Right over the stiff hard-on in his jumpsuit, doing little to hide itself. Your ass is so outrageously cold against his crotch and… oh, fuck. That’s so perfect. Peter groans again through a shuddering breath. Limply, he lowers himself onto his back. Hoping to conceal his shame, he brings his hands to his face.

Except, there’s no denying his obvious desire anymore.

“Auuuuugh.” Peter curses himself, “Shit. I am seriously so, so sorry-” Your name plays on his tongue in a desperate, apologetic tone, “I-I really…I dunno why I’m so-uh…I’m not usually-”

“Hey, don’t worry! It’s okay. Believe me, I don’t mind…”

Gosh. There you go again, doing that thing. The thing where you act so unexpectedly understanding in the face of an awkward situation. But even then, Peter can hear your smooth voice waver. Despite all you try to hide, he can tell. You’re just as nervous as he is, but ultimately better at masking it.

He doesn’t see it, but you gaze down at him rather suggestively. A fresh, newfound sense of lust lingers in your eyes. Raking your nails teasingly down his chest, you draw numbing streaks of snow, making him wince. The frost manifests seamlessly from your fingers, tickling Peter’s ever burning skin. It melts instantly, leaving beaded droplets.

“Does it really feel good when I touch you like this, pretty boy?” You tease, that waver in your voice barely leaking through again.

Wooooah. Okay. Okay. Hold up. Rewind. What?

Peter isn’t hearing you wrong this time. He couldn’t be. It’s impossible to misread the dirty tease in your tone. In the blink of an eye – rapid fire speed – the blood pooling in his cheeks vacates straight to his dick. Peter’s cock twitches, pulsating under his jumpsuit – under you – and shamefully unveiling just how horny he really is.

The high-speed boom boom boom of Peter’s heart skids to a deafening halt. His exhausted lungs finally collapse. Squeezing out his final remnants of life. If someone were to hook him up to an EKG, he surely would’ve flat-lined. Sayonara, suckers. This foolhardy speedster’s at the end of his road.

But…what’s this?! Peter’s still alive and breathing? Who could’ve predicted such a phenomenon??

He lowers his hands from his flushed face, peering over the tips of his fingers. His black coffee eyes blown exceptionally wide.

“Woah. Hold on now. What?” Peter snorts. He shakes himself free of total shock, frantically nodding, “Uh, yeah? It feels…really fuckin’ awesome, to tell you the truth.”

“Mhm?” You hum a sensual vibration, biting your lip, “Mind if I try something bold then?”

Peter arches a curious brow. You’re kind of a little minx, aren’t you?

“Literally? You can do whatever you want with me, babe. I’m all yours.” He heaves an exasperated laugh.

A smirk dawns your pretty lips, and you shimmy backwards over Peter’s lap. Until the bulging swell of his hardness lies before you, squirming under his jumpsuit. Teasing him, you drag your biting touch down to his crotch. Euphoric cold dances across his pelvis. You stop short of his hard-on, and Peter draws in a ragged breath.

“Awww…feelin’ a little stiff, sweetheart?” You coo in a sultry sound. Peter feels his blood pressure drop to a life-threatening degree, “Let me help you out.”

Testing the metaphorical, frozen waters; you bring your frigid palm over his bulge. You watch Peter for any sign to retract your hand, fixing him with an intense look. But to your surprise, his cock doesn’t soften under your frosty touch. Not like one would expect. Oh, no. The opposite happens, in fact.

“Mmmmhh…oh my god.” He moans, his front teeth clamping hard into his lip. Jolting in response to his own sensitivity, he rolls his hips into your small hand, “Please…”

You squeeze the thick length of him as well as you can over his jumpsuit, applying more pressure. Awkwardly stroking his dick with your wintry tipped fingers. The bleak touch you cast sends chills racing through Peter’s veins, and sharp pleasure rises in his groin.

“F-Fer the record, by the way, this is not how I expected this to go.” Peter shivers, breathlessly chuckling.

“Oh, no?” You mutter, climbing over Peter on your knees. Glacial breath ghosts his lips. You lean in close, giving his cock another firm squeeze, “Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Fuuuuuuck no, baby. Not a chance.” Peter groans his reply, lifting his hips. Yearning for more of your gratifying chill. Another wintry wave of cold seizes through his groin, and Peter’s eyes roll back, “Holy shit. That’s it.”

Peter finds himself a little conflicted. His brown hues can’t decide if they wanna gaze into your own, or stare longingly at your lips. In the past, Peter thought about those same lips more often than he’d admit. But to be so up close and personal with them like this…

“I’m not even gonna lie to you, Screwball. I really wanna kiss you right now.” Peter admits defeat. Even in your polar proximity, humiliation burns his cheeks with the force of hellfire.

Knitting your brows, you narrow your eyes. And for a painfully long instant, Peter thinks he’s finally fucked up. As if confessing his desire to kiss you was somehow a step too far over the line.

Is there even a line left between the two of you anymore? Or did you both trip over it the moment you gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes?

You lean in a touch closer, quietly chuckling. Cold puffs of air fan over his lips, a needle-thin space away.

“You’re so silly, y’know that? Why do you keep callin’ me Screwball?” You ask, placing a tantalizing kiss to the corner of his lips. Like the touch of a delicate snowflake, “You make it sound like you think I’m crazy.”

“Well, okay, first of all, you gotta be some kinda crazy. ‘Specially if yer screwin’ around with me.” Peter jokes. He’s beyond winded under the teasing brush of your soft lips, “S-Second of all, it’s an ice cream thing. You ever-uhm…stop by an ice cream truck before?”

Why’s he even doing this? Making casual conversation like it’s a date at the diner. Peter half expects you to pull away. Since this is the least sexiest thing he could be doing. Amazingly, you remain where you are. Trailing kisses across Peter’s cheek, down to his ear. Leaving feather-light sparkles of frost in your wake. Still, they melt within seconds.

“Yeah. Of course I have. So?” You mumble.

He tenses as goosebumps descend down his neck. The tight grip you have on his dick doesn’t let up. Any words Peter planned on saying seem completely lost on him now.

“Uhhhh…Screwball’s the little…it’s got the-uh…gumballs at the bottom. It’s, like, a cone-”

Righteous work, casanova.

“Right. And I’m Screwball because…?”

Damn you, little minx! You know why. The answer’s totally obvious. There’s no way you’re that dense. Nah. You’re just so set on teasing Peter, tempting him to nervously ramble. Like you find his embarrassment…humorous or whatever. Pfffbbtt …

“You messin’ with me? It’s ‘cuz it’s ice cream, yeah? No duh. And ice is, like, yer thing, babe. I dunno. It made more sense in my head.” Peter laughs in spite of himself, “Listen…can I please kiss you? Before I make even more of an ass outta myself?”

In this position, Peter can’t kiss you. Even though it’s all he can think about. You’re too busy mouthing at his neck, grazing his skin with your teeth. Fondling his cock in freezing strokes, making him whine under his breath.

Up until this very moment, Peter’s hands remained mostly still. He’d dig his fingernails into your blankets, as the pleasure of freezer burn simmered in his pelvis. But he held himself back from ever really touching you. Since this little interaction wasn’t supposed to end up like this to begin with.

But now? Well…shit.

You knead at his junk like you’re making biscuits, flicking your icy tongue across the skin of his neck. Eliciting another husky whine from deep in his throat. Peter’s pretty sure, judging by your forwardness; you wouldn’t mind so much if he touched you just a little, right? Like, you totally wouldn’t protest if he brought his large hand to the back of your head, would you?

He threads his fingers through your soft hair, tugging your head back gently. Pulling you from his neck, just so he can meet your wanton eyes again. There’s a single second of hesitation, as both of Peter’s hands claim your cheeks. That second seems to stretch for what feels like an hour, while Peter memorizes the features of your face. His racing, speedster heart leaps at the sight.

He swiftly pulls you down for a kiss. It’s clumsy as all get out. Initially, anyway. But if there’s one thing he can actually pride himself on? At the very least, he’s had a lot of experience with canoodling. Kissing you comes as naturally to Peter as running does. His skillful lips and tongue guide yours effortlessly. Coercing you into a heated makeout session. Against his own, your lips are frosty cold. Like drinking crisp water straight from a chilled glass.

Or…it’s more like he’s lapping his tongue across some kind of…slushy ice cream. Like…a Screwball cone, maybe?

No?

Fuck it. Whatever. The only difference is, you don’t taste anything like cherry. You taste like you. And Peter would argue that’s almost better. Almost. Cherry’s pretty hard to beat. It’s a tough competition.

As you fall victim to his bitchin’ makeout skills, Peter indulges himself. He touches you the way he’s dreamed since forever and a day. His hands glide thick fingers down your chilly body. Feeling every glittering facet of your suit under his fingertips. Meeting the curves of your hips, he squeezes them firmly.

“Mmmmm…this is awesome.” Peter breathes, “This is really fuckin’ awesome.” He hums into your lips, stifling a moan by kissing you again. You stroke his clothed cock a little faster, and he chokes, “O-Oh…yer so awesome. Fuck.”

“You’re really awesome yourself. But I’ve always thought that about you.” You titter, nuzzling his nose so tenderly, “The others on the team? Yeah. They’re alright. But you? Peter, you’re the coolest.” You admit with a bashful smile. After locking him in one more, passionate smooch, you pull away, “Sexy too.”

“W-Wait, really? Are you bein’ serious right now?” Peter asks, stupefied. He furrows his brows. Another beat, and he forces himself to smirk proudly, “I-I mean…well, yeah. Pssshh …of course. Why wouldn’t you think that? I’m the bomb, baby.”

Peter keeps his hands on your hips, feeling your ravishing curves. Stroking them with his thumbs. They fit so perfectly in his grasp. And Goddamn, Peter doesn’t ever wanna let go. Mark his words. Right here, right now. He’ll glue his hands to you forever if he has to.

Lowering your ass over his crotch, you keep your erotic gaze focused on his. Your intense eye contact never seems to break for even a moment. Pressing into the exposed, damp skin of his chest, you brace your freezing hands over Peter’s pecs. A filthy moan teases your lips, as you roll your gorgeous hips forward and back. Grinding into his needy bulge.

Oh.

This is happening now. Fuck yeah.

Peter squirms in place, tightening his hold on your hips. His nails tear at the tiny sequins of your jumpsuit, digging into the sparkling material. It’s such a needlessly skin tight thing, for fuck’s sake. Criminally skin tight, even. How did Xavier ever greenlight that? Peter can see the tempting outline of your pussy in it, deliciously rolling into his clothed cock. His mouth waters at the sight. Lifting his hips off the bed, he meets your slow thrusts.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, what the fuck-” He moans an octave louder.

A strangled sound catches in his throat, and you’re quick to shush him the moment it frees itself.

“Pietro, honey, you gotta be quiet, okay?”

Hushed moans pour from your parted lips as you speak his given name. Peter’s completely bushwhacked at the mention of it. Since no one ever – excluding his mom, in her more frustrated moods – uses that name. A tickling flutter erupts with a burst in his belly. He almost creams himself at the sound of that name in your voice.

“Come on. Be good for me. You can be good for me. Can’t you, baby?” You plead. Moving your hips in a painfully slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuuuuuuuck. Babe, please-” Peter begs, “Faster? Faster, please. Yer killin’ me."

Your sharp nails sink into his bare chest, manifesting more glassy shards of frost. Winter cold seizes Peter’s body entirely, infecting him with frostbite’s kiss. Peter knits his brows tightly, his dark eyes mesmerized with your every movement. The freezing solace permeating from your pussy proves a little too overwhelming. As sharp, pinpricks of cold rush through his veins; it all morphs into carnal heat.

His muscles quickly tighten, every inch of him tensing in an instant.

“Wait wait wait! Fuck!” Peter whimpers in desperation, a flurry of moans erupting from his throat. His rock hard cock twitches, pulsating under you as he cums. Leaking thick streams of his seed into his boxers and jumpsuit, “F-Fuck! I’m sorry, baby! Ohhhhh god! I’m so sorry.”

As far as Peter knows, you have no clue he’s a virgin. Until now, he was content with that. He hadn’t planned on announcing it anytime soon. In hindsight, it’s pretty fucking embarrassing how easily he comes undone. All from a little dry humping, no less.

Yeah. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later. Yikes.

Sticky, white pearls of his cum seep through his jumpsuit, staining the material. Your erotic motions slow to a stop, once you notice the streaks sticking to your clothed cunt. Tilting your head, you raise a brow. A delicate blush swarms your neck and ears, as you stare down at Peter with genuine surprise. He tilts his head back shamefully, sighing.

“D-Did you just-” You hesitate to continue. Wintry fingertips trace over his bare chest, “Damn, Quickie, that was fast.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Peter sighs again, bringing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, “Dammit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling blistering warmth rapidly return. Taunting him with the promise of death by suffocation all over again. Before he finally succumbs to it, you crawl over him. Knees braced on either side of his body.

“I’m…god, I’m really fuckin’ sorry about that.” Peter awkwardly stammers, “I-I just…fuck! Yer just so-”

You shush him, chuckling, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. That was so, sooooooo hot. Really hot, if I’m being honest.”

By virtue of his blessed genes, Peter takes very little time to recover. And hell, you make it an impossible feat not to chub up all over again. Your arctic tongue intertwines with his hotter one, as you meet him in another sloppy kiss. Cold hands grasp his cheeks, quickly sliding through his hair. Dragging your nails across Peter’s scalp, you kiss him with more urgency.

Peter sneaks his hands to your juicy ass, warm palms feeling at your plush booty cheeks. He gives one of them a light, playful smack. Drawing out a squeak from you, Peter giggles into your mouthy kisses. He’s distracted enough, he almost doesn’t notice you tugging the zipper of his jumpsuit.

“C’mon, get this thing off already.” You pull the zipper down even further, murmuring through frantic kisses, “Before you die of heat stroke in my bed.”

With a hmph , Peter nods his head, “Hey, if it’s life ‘er death? Guess I’ve got no choice then, huh?” He replies, fabricating his confidence, “Just a sec.”

Peter sits up fully on your bed, his feet absentmindedly kicking a few plushies on the floor. You slide off the bed entirely. Stepping back to give Peter the space he needs. From your perspective, the removal of his sweaty jumpsuit takes less than a second. But from Peter’s own POV, it’s a thousand years before he finally pulls himself out of his clothes. Clumsily, he peels his sticky limbs free.

“Fuckin’ shit-” He curses, struggling to free one of his ankles once he’s done.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but a faint air of raw cold filters through the space of your room. With his body free of stifling clothing; Peter can finally embrace that coolness in full. It bites sharply at his skin, making him shudder. Peter inhales a slow, deep breath just to feel it all

“Oh, wow! It feels damn good in here, Screwball! Like, woahhh! I feel like I’ve been sweatin’ my balls off this whole time until now.” He says.

“That’s the most charming thing you’ve said all day.” You sarcastically chime. And he snorts.

Peter promptly rids himself of his sweat soaked shirt, aching to feel more frigid air on his skin. He tosses the drenched fabric to the floor. Left in his cum stained boxers, Peter shifts uncomfortably on your bed. Self consciously, he gazes at you with a doe eyed look. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap.

“Sooooooo…uh…a-are you gonna take off yer-uhm…” Peter gives you a once over, gesturing to your jumpsuit.

He lets his long, sturdy legs hang off the side of your bed. Watching as you take slow steps backwards, pulling that tiny, snowflake zipper of yours. Dragging it all the way down. A mischievous spark twinkles in your eye, and Peter’s heart skips a thousand beats. Even though you’re trying your best to be sexy, you’re still just as clumsy as he was.

Which somehow, ultimately makes you even sexier to him.

You peel your limbs out of your glittering jumpsuit. Revealing the underwear beneath, fitting your body in all the right ways. Peter’s adam’s apple bobs, his eyes flitting up and down your curvaceous form. Drinking in the image of you almost completely bare.

“Holy shit.” Peter mumbles, leaning back and bracing his hands on your bed.

You’re giggling again. Blessing his ears with a precious sound he’s grown to adore over the last…however long it’s been since you invited him in. Peter can’t really remember. It’s impossible to hold any sense of rational thought while watching you like this. Especially when you pull off everything except your little, lace panties. Freeing your-

Whoaaaaaaa, mama.

There they are. In all their beautiful, freezing glory. Your icy cold knockers bounce freely. And with a flawlessly executed jiggle, too. If Peter had a sign, he'd rate them a perfect ten.

The skin of your breasts is heavenly soft, dusted in a faint motif of frosty snowflakes. Nipples perky.

Peter's wondered about those suckers for ages. And you most definitely don't disappoint. He whistles, his eyes flying open. Black pupils dilating like drops of heavy ink. No matter how hard he tries, he can't tear his gaze away from those bouncy beauties.

"Damn, Screwball…" Peter grins, shaking his head, "Yer a smokeshow, babe."

Subconsciously, he palms his hardening dick over his boxer briefs. Momentarily grimacing at the texture of drying cum in the fabric. His focused gaze lingers a little too long on your totally righteous titties. You're talking again. Speaking words in that sweet voice, though they go unheard.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah!

You must have given up on trying. He barely sees you coming, as you collide your lips with his again. Shocking him out of his boob-induced daze. The moment you're in close enough range, he reaches out to touch you. Burning hot palms fondle your breasts, fingers toying with your nipples. Furrowing your brows, you squeal into his mouth.

"Your hands-" You whine, "Your hands are so hot. It's like you're on fire." And Peter chuckles a heated breath in response.

"See? And that's why we're here. Gotta beat the heat somehow, eh?" He says, his hands playing with your frosty titties. Silken and cold on his skin.

Sinking to the floor, you lower yourself onto your knees. Peter knows without an ounce of doubt; your poor knees have to be aching like hell right about now. Yet, you persist. He scoots a little further at the edge of your bed, allowing you to ease yourself between his spread legs. With one less layer of clothing in the way of your touch, the coolness feels even more crisp and harsh over his cock.

“God, you’re so pretty…” He mumbles.

Peter stares down at you in awe, curling his fingers into the sheets. Biting your lip with an impish grin, you ease his boxers off completely. As your glimmering eyes meet the full length of his cock, you're instantly enamored. His dick, colored a scarlet hue and pulsing with thick veins, bounces over a silver bush of hair.

You haven't even touched him directly yet. But Peter can already feel that freezing aura easing in close. Swiping your tongue across your plush lips, you gaze at Peter's dick like your hunger hasn't been satiated in weeks.

No words are spoken between you both. As one of your hands treads carefully. Barely touching his thickness with your fingers. You stroke him in slow, but firm motions at first. Peter arches his back in shock, the cold like electricity rushing through his veins. Arctic temperatures rapidly pump his body full of adrenaline.

Maybe that’s why he’s so into this. Being a speedster, he’s always been addicted to the rush of exhilaration.

“Ohhh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Peter moans.

Your strokes slide up to the swollen, purple-ish head of his cock. Squeezing tightly. But the tip is too outrageously sensitive. A simple, icy cold tug of it gets Peter practically seizing. White light flashes through his vision. And just like that, he’s going totally mental. He jumps with an abrupt jerk, his body vibrating.

Peter whimpers in quick gasps, “Ah! N-Not the tip, baby! Not the tip!”

You make a quick retreat, sliding your hand down to the thick base of his length. Pumping his vascular cock in a frosty fist. He can feel his blood vessels constricting with every motion. Cold creeps under his skin, bringing with it a burning sensation. Peter’s groin tightens, and his moans turn to pleading whimpers.

With a cheshire grin, you flutter your lashes over a naughty gaze. Leaning forward, you tease the smooth length of his cock with your lips. Kitten licking a vein with the tip of your tongue.

“W-Wait! Hold on, Screwball! Fuck-” One of Peter’s hands finds your head, clutching strands of your hair between his fingers, “It’s too much, baby! I can’t-”

A long, chilling swipe of your tongue brings momentary crystals of ice. Igniting the burn along his skin. Peter never thought himself a masochist. But this freaky, frosty jerk-off session has somehow completely rewired his brain chemistry. Pain never felt so good.

In all your wickedness, little minx, you refuse to heed Peter’s warning. Your mouth engulfs the scorching heat of his cock. Surrounding him in a crisp, cold shroud. Bringing upon him a vengeance of the bleakest kind. Like a frostbitten hug, sending shockwaves of pleasure fluttering through his bones. Peter’s breathing quickens.

“Ah! FUCK! Gonna fuckin-...I’m fuckin’ cumming, baby! Sorry, sorry, sorr-” He falters over broken whines.

Acting on impulse like the total spaz he is, Peter panics. Tugging your head from his cock so he doesn’t bust a load in your mouth. He lags a few seconds behind. Late again, as per usual.

Peter accidentally showers your precious lips in his cum. Painting your face in hot, messy strands of it. He writhes in place, sluggishly rocking his hips forward. The spurting tip of his dick kisses your lips, the length bouncing with every eruption of thick, sticky heat.

For a second time in a row, he’s blown his load prematurely. Impressive, in a really lame way. But, hey, even if Peter feels a little bad for glossing you in his cum. He’s gotta admit, you look drop dead gorgeous like this.

Peter quickly snaps out of his post-nut daze, his eyes dancing across your decorated face.

Ah. Actually, now that he’s thinking somewhat clearly again…it’s a little gross. He fumbles over an onslaught of apologies. Reaching to the floor for his discarded shirt without thinking, he wipes your face clean of his nut.

Wait. Fuck. Why’d he use his shirt? Shit. Get it together, Quickie!

As always, you’re just as chill about this as you have been everything else, “That wasn’t so bad. But thanks. Sorry about your shirt, though.” You giggle. But all Peter does is shamefully laugh in response.

You’re perceptive enough to catch onto his sudden hesitance. He tenses, avoiding your pretty eyes. Bouncing a nervous leg at the speed of a rabbit’s kicks. Twice now, you’ve seen him finish way too early. And though he knows in his heart you wouldn’t judge him for his lack of experience; a small part of him fears the worst.

He really likes you, actually. It’d hurt like hell if you thought less of him over something so trivial.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” You ask. Playful, but still concerned.

Peter’s heart aches in the presence of your gentle nature. Swallowing his pride, he opts to confess. And if you think him pathetic for being a thirty year old virgin? Fuck it. He’s betting Hank’s mini fridge is still vacant.

You’re resting on your knees in between his legs, tracing feather-light, frosty patterns into his thigh. Peter’s skin swiftly erupts in goosebumps again, his body never accustomed to your arctic touch. Taking a deep breath, he drops his head forward.

“I…gotta be honest with ya about somethin’. I’ts-...” Peter cuts himself off with a sigh, burying his face in his hands, “I’m kind of…a virgin. Y’know, if you couldn’t already tell. I just…didn’t wanna say anything.”

“Pfffttt …” You puff in disbelief, like you’re assuming he’s messing with you. But Peter blinks, staring down into your eyes with a look that tells you he’s all business, “You’re serious? But, Peter, no offense? I’m really surprised! You always seemed like such a player. Like, you flirt with literally everyone.”

Peter stares at you in silence. He shakes his head, brows furrowed. A timid grin curling into his lips.

“I guess? I talk a big game, yeah. And I’ve made out with a lotta girls. Screwed around a few times. But…nah. I’ve never-uh…actually, really screwed. I dunno if the timing was never right or what, but…” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Despite fighting an internal war of crippling shame.

“Well, we’ll just have to remedy this then, won’t we?” Your hand rises to his chin, thumb tenderly stroking rough, silver stubble.

His eyes fly open, cheeks swarming a bright red. A beat, and Peter’s dick already twitches to life again at the prospect of your offer. However, despite his body’s insatiable desire, he waves his hands and shakes his head.

“N-No! No, babe! Listen, you don’t have to. I really wasn’t implyin’ anything when I said…uh…it’s just…I-I’ve never told anyone. That's all!”

“It’s fine! I said I would take care of you, didn’t I?”

He swallows, caught off guard by your choice of words. ‘Take care of you.’ His brows raise high, and the cartoonishly fast pounding of his heart returns. Fluttering in his chest, hiking up to sonic speed. Peter opens his mouth to protest, to remind you that you shouldn’t feel pressured into stealing his v-card.

But you’re already pushing yourself off the floor, climbing over Peter on your bed. With your icy hand to his chest, you guide him down onto his back. He gazes up at you with an uncertain, but lustful look in his dark eyes. In spite of the significantly cooler temperature of your room; Peter’s entire body breaks out in a humid sweat.

Okay. Calm down, man. Take a chill pill. Relax.

“You got any condoms?” You ask, blunt and up front.

So. This is really happening, huh? Yeah. Peter’s gonna lose his v-card to one of his teammates. No biggie. Screwing his fellow X-Man Screwball? Totally not a big deal.

Peter swallows dryly again, an awkward chuckle vibrating over his tongue.

“Not on me, no. I don’t really-uhhh…carry those around.” He makes a hasty move to sit up, “But I can run to the store really quick and grab some. Y’wanna snack ‘er a drink while I’m at it? I could really go fer somethin’ sweet like-”

Your frosty lips capture his in yet another, intimate kiss. For the sake of Peter’s inexperience, you take your time. Guiding Peter down onto his back once more. Working with tender consideration. When your tongue so lovingly swirls with his, he scowls. Tasting the lingering bitterness of his nut. He curls his lip.

“Euuuugh! Augh! Blegh! Is that really what I taste like? Eck! I’m so sorry, Screwball. I’ll try to spare ya next time. Eugh. That’s disgusting!” He rambles, overcompensating for his uneasy nerves again.

“Next time?” You raise your brows. Supple, wet lips smirking.

“Y-Yeah? Yeah…like… pfftt …if you want…” Peter shrugs, casual, blinking puppy dog eyes, “I dunno about you, but I’m havin’ a killer time fuckin’ around like this.” He adds, fingers toying with the hem of your panties.

Reaching for his cock, you take his length into your icy cold grip. Peter jolts again, cursing under his breath.

“I need to confess something too.” You say, bashful. Peter watches your facade of confidence diminish for a moment, “Would you still wanna do this if I told you I’m just as cold on the inside?”

“Woah…yeah. Listen, that is the opposite of a problem for me.” Peter reassures you, looking between your bodies, “Call me crazy? I’m really diggin’ the whole cold thing.”

He watches your fingers hook through the hem of your panties, sliding them down your smooth legs. It’s a bit awkward for you to get them off in this position. But eventually, you’re entirely exposed.

No more messing around. This is the real deal.

Wiggling your ass, you position your wintry cunt over his cock’s swollen head. Peter’s fingers tremble as they grab your ass for purchase. Holding you steady, he keeps his lidded gaze on your pussy. Entranced in the sight of your puffy lips lowering over his tip. Barely nudging it in, giving just a little tease of what’s to come. He shivers, muscles locking, shockwaves of glacial cold racing through his veins already.

“Ohhhhhhhh …wow…” He whines, teeth clamping his lip, “Please, ya gotta gimme more than that, baby.”

“Pietro, be patient.” You chastise him, fluttering your eyes closed.

Sighs and erotic moans of euphoria rise from the both of you in unison, just as his leaking tip dives through your cushiony walls. Peter shudders again, craning his neck back. Moaning a broken, strangled sound from deep in his chest. The tight, freezing sting of your cunt causes him to tense up. Peter digs his nails into the flesh of your ass, his lips parting for breath.

“Mmmmmfffuuck. You good? You okay?” You ask, little mewls bubbling in your throat.

Through frantic, wordless intakes of breath, Peter nods.

He’s never felt anything like this in all his thirty years of life. It’s a completely new sensation. The plushiest of pins and needles constricting tightly around his cock. Or the world’s softest pillow, pulled straight out of the freezer. Sex with you is the kind he could so easily become addicted to. If it was possible to stay connected this intimately forever, he’d do so in a heartbeat. No questions asked. Totally worth the searing pain of frostbite.

You take a few moments to adjust to the length and girth of him. It feels like centuries before you’re moving, but the wait is more than worth it. Your cunt weeps around his cock, swallowing him up completely in a frosty slickness. Peter chokes, his breath hitching. The pace you set is frustratingly slow, bouncing into his pelvis in steady slams of bush on silver bush.

“Fuck yeah. Just like that. More? C’mon gimme more, baby, please. Oh, please!” He whines, submissive and needy.

Sitting up a little straighter, you balance your cool hands on his chest. Peter’s skin is all raw and red, frostbitten from your previous teasing. It’s a little painful now, actually. Leaving a tingly burn. But the stinging pain registers as pleasure in Peter’s speedy brain.

Your pussy molds perfectly with the thick shape of him. Roughly shocking you with a surge of dull pain, Peter’s cock knocks straight into your squishy cervix. His expression contorts in overstimulation, his mouth falling open. He wets his lips with his tongue.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ ride me. Mmmmm yeah~” Peter moans, “Yer so fuckin’ cold. Shit-” His moans steadily trail off into whimpers.

“Should I stop? Is it too much?” You halt your movements for a second too long.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ stop.” He groans, animalistic and ragged, “Ohhhh~ Please don’t stop.”

As you thrust your beautiful body into his lap, Peter follows your lead. Driving his hips against your ass with each bounce of contact. Overshadowing that sultry melody of Pink Floyd with the lewd smacking of skin on skin. Your cunt hugs his cock in a grip tight enough to induce more freezer burn. But it’s such an alluring feeling, he bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

Peter’s brown-eyed gaze rakes down your body. Intoxicated with the way your titties bounce and your pussy sucks the ever-speeding soul out of him. He has to mentally-prep himself so he doesn’t cum too soon again. But the piercing cold compressing his dick sends thrilling pulses through his limbs. Erotic pleasure burns deep in his gut.

“Pietro!” You cry. Riding his dick and mewling soft kitten noises, you circle your little clit with your fingers, “Want me to cum on your cock, pretty boy? Wanna feel this tight, little pussy cum for you?” 

Ohhhhh. You can’t do that to him. Dirty, little minx. He’s never heard such filthy words like that come out of your mouth. And the way you sound, how you look touching yourself on his cock; It all triggers a carnal instinct in the recesses of his mind.

Peter lifts his hips in a display of super strength, abusing your cervix repeatedly with his cock. Pounding your pussy so fast and hard. With a force deep and rough enough to make you see stars. A filthy squelch of a sound echoes from inside you.

“Oh my god-” Peter’s face contorts in needy desperation, brows creasing, “Please? Wanna feel you cum, baby. Need you to cum on my dick so bad.”

Sitting up on his elbows with his mouth hanging lazily open, Peter brings his fingers to his drooling tongue. His eyes are half lidded and cloudy, almost rolling back into his skull. He reaches out, the wet pads of his fingers meeting your cute bud. He buzzes his digits in a scorching vibration, knowing how sensitive you are to his heat. Easily coaxing you towards release.

“HOH! FUCK-” Peter’s eyes flutter in shock, “ Ohmyfuckingod that’s really fuckin’ tight. ”

His body tenses hard as stone. Feeling you clench around him while he fucks you so deep he thinks he’s reached your stomach. Within a few, measly seconds of teasing vibrations on your clit; you’re cumming. Coating his cock in a wave of crisp slickness. You tremble uncontrollably, tilting your head back and crying like a siren of the arctic seas. Singing a mantra of the name Pietro.

Peter grips your hips hard with both hands, sinking his blunt nails into your skin. Animalistic instinct overflows his mind as soon as he’s reached his own peak. Ecstasy tumbles over Peter in an overwhelming crash, much like an avalanche. And just as he’s pumping you impossibly full of hot, thick ropes of cum; something happens.

His release burns inside you, pooling in a milky heat. A stark contrast to the freezing temperature constantly flowing through your body. Your nails scratch red lines into his chest, manifesting glass crystals of frost. They burn like hell, and Peter hisses. One, final slap of your ass against his lap, and –

A ripple of explosive, winter cold rushes from your body in a flash. The bombastic wave coats your entire room in powdery snow and sheets of ice. Turning the small space into a glorified freezer. It even hits the record player, slowing the final tune of Obscured by Clouds to a creeping stop. Piercing cold fires through Peter’s lungs, and he chokes on it.

…D…Did that really just happen??

Glancing around frantically, he pushes himself up on your bed.

A soft, tingling blanket of snow drapes his body. Peter sputters, quickly brushing as much of it off as he can. You’re still sitting over his lap, his softening dick tucked safely between your pussy’s plush walls. With every puff of warm air from his lungs, Peter can see his breath fanning like smoke through the air.

“Woooahhhhh, babe…” He nudges you on the shoulder to get your attention, his expression wide eyed and bewildered, “Are you seein’ this shit?”

Recovering from your numbing state of euphoria, you lazily scan your room. You gasp, though it sounds more like a really cute squeak; covering your mouth with a hand.

“Ah! What the hell did I do!? I’m sorry! Oh my god, Peter, I’m so sorry!” You say, dropping your face into Peter’s frost-bitten chest.

He hisses as you lean into his sensitive, scarred skin. And before you can spout off another flurry of sweet apologies – a noise catches the attention of you both. Outside, the two of you hear the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter. Joyful cries, followed by playful giggles and screams. You raise your head, meeting Peter’s doe eyes with a questioning look.

Narrowing his eyes, he pats your thigh. Signaling you to hop off his lap.

Clumsily, Peter zips around the room in a blur, searching for something to cover himself up with. But his clothes are all caked in snow. And not to mention a little something else. Peter has to resort to a blanket stuffed underneath all the others on your bed. Untouched by your surprise blizzard. He cloaks himself in the blanket, appearing at your door in a fwip.

Discreetly, he pulls the door open.

Or, at least, he makes an attempt. It’s completely frozen in place, sealed with ice around the lock and hinges.. Why is he even surprised at this point? Peter tugs the handle once or twice with barely any strength. And when that doesn’t work, he jerks it open with a harsh flex of his muscles. He pokes his fluffy, silverette head halfway out the door. Looking up and down the hallways.

Only to find…

Your orgasmic snowstorm reached places far beyond the confined space of your room. Looks like Christmas came early this year. The hallways of Xavier’s mansion are all drenched in frosty spreads of snow. It’s not nearly as much as what’s accumulated in your room. But it’s enough to stir up the students and teachers. Many of the kids run around excitedly. Bouncing, cheering, celebrating.

And who can blame them?

To those unseen forces of the universe out there: thanks for blessing us all with the power of Screwball's ecstasy.

Out of nowhere, the X-Men’s laser eyed leader makes his appearance. Scott comes skidding to a halt outside your door just at that moment. He balances himself with a hand to your door, a genial smile on his face. A fuzzy fust of red tickles the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Across the hall, Logan leans casually against a wall. Puffing a cigar, wearing a thin undershirt that compliments his jacked form a little too well. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his fitted jeans.

For a moment, Scott doesn’t seem to register why Peter’s even in your room.

But in this life, one speedster can only be so lucky.

“Wh-...Peter? Hey-uh…where’s-” Scott mentions your name, and continues, “I wanted to give ‘em my thanks for doing this.” He gestures over his shoulder to the mess of snow covering the walls and floors, “Some of the kids were getting really sick from the weather. And I know Xavier's gonna be pissed, but-...” His voice slowly trails off.

Scott’s smile falls for a beat. But Peter finds it hard to read his emotions without seeing his eyes clearly. Those sunglasses must do him loads of favors on a daily basis. If he tries, he can gauge what’s going through Scott’s head based on the look of surprise that crosses his face. Followed by a sly, knowing grin.

Summers is an intelligent guy. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

Especially with the way Peter stands in your doorway. He’s draped in a blanket that clearly isn’t his, shoulders bare underneath. The surface of his skin burns cherry red in some places. His hair is a tousled, fuzzy mess, and his cheeks are flushed bright pink.

Peter awkwardly swallows, avoiding the vibrant gaze of Scott’s red-tinted sunglasses. He directs his attention over his shoulder instead, making accidental eye contact with Logan. Wolvie arches a thick, quizzical brow, his eyes glancing over Peter’s blanketed form.

He really hadn’t meant for anyone to find out about this. But it looks like the cat’s out of the bag.

“You kids better be using protection.” Scott jokes, patronizing.

Which is funny, coming from him. Peter’s got ten years on him at the least.

“Uhhhh, yeah. I’ll totally tell ‘em you said thanks. We cool? Bitchin’. Later, Summers.” Peter rushes through his words ultra fast, before slamming the door shut behind him.

That’ll be a rough one to explain later. But hopefully no one’ll be nosy enough to pry. Besides, Peter doesn’t wanna think about it right now. Since, y’know, he kinda just got laid for the first time. Which is really fucking awesome, now that he can stop and really digest that it happened. And with someone he’s been crushing on too.

Maybe he’s luckier than he thought.

Peter presses his back against your icy door, letting the thick blanket covering his body fall to the floor. Leaving him butt ass naked in your freezer of a room. He rakes his fingers through his hair, cheesing a goofy smile to himself.

“What’s goin’ on? Were you talkin’ to someone?” You ask, emerging from your bathroom and brushing snow off a towel.

“Oh- pfffttt …just Summers. Yeah. He-uh…wanted to tell you thanks. ‘Cuz you kinda went all blizzard on this whole place and now it’s, like-” Peter makes a wide gesture with his hands, mimicking the sound of an avalanche falling. Or, that’s what he tries to do, anyway. He’s never been the best at charades.

“HUH!? What are you-” You rush to your door. Those pretty titties of yours bounce with every step. And Peter ogles them shamelessly. Poking your head through the door, he overhears the sound of your gasp. Followed by the shyest little, “Heyyyyyy, Logan.”

Before you’re closing the door again, marching to your bathroom with your head cast down in shame. 

“Xavier’s gonna kill me, dude! I can’t believe this!” You whisper-shout.

Your bashfulness and frustration are so cute, Peter has to refrain from snickering. And as you reach the doorway, you stop yourself. He catches the motion of your eyes checking him out, before your gazes meet again. Peter smirks.

“Uhm…how was your first time, by the way?” You ask in a quiet, uncertain tone, “Was it…okay?”

Oh, you cannot even be serious right now.

Peter gives you a weird look. Staring at you like you’re some strange, newly discovered entity from a far off universe. Really, you must be, if you’re gonna question a good time like that.

“Okay? Okay?? ” Peter appears before you in less than a blink’s time.

He wraps his strong arm around your waist, pulling you close to his body. Grinning confidently, he darts down to kiss your frosty lips.

“Screwball, baby, that was a total rush. Are you crazy? It’s not every day I make somebody cum so hard they kickstart an early winter, y’know. Not bad fer my first time, if I do say so myself.” He waggles his brows.

I’m really glad I could help you out…” You mutter, smiling so sweet.

Your fingers trace the burns littering Peter’s chest with a feather-light touch. Even the faintest brush makes him wince in pain. But he’s not ashamed to admit it’s totally worth it. What’s a little freezer burn and frostbite between friends, huh?

Or, between…whatever the two of you are now.

“Oh, you did wayyyy more than help me out.” Peter winks, kissing you once more, “You rocked my world babe. Don’t sweat it, ‘kay? I had a great time.”

You saunter off to your bathroom then. And Peter reaches out to playfully smack your ass as you walk away. He admires your gorgeous figure in all its naked glory. His eyes following the jiggle of your booty cheeks.

“Yer still takin’ me on that date, right? Dinner and a movie?” He asks, startling you with his sudden appearance in the bathroom. Peter presses himself into your back, standing tall in comparison to your height.

“Can we hold off? Do you think you can wait until the city isn’t on fire?” You meet his dark eyes in the mirror over the sink, “And it can’t be Howard the Duck.”

“No. It’s most definitely gotta be Howard the Duck.” Peter brings his warm hands to your shoulders, thumbs gliding along your soft skin. He leans down to pepper your sex hair in kisses, “I won’t accept nothin’ else, got it?

“Mmmhm. Shouldn’t I be the judge of that, Peter? Since, like, you keep implying I’m the one paying.”

He scoffs, slowly gliding his large hands over the irresistible curves of your body. He gives a mischievous grin through the mirror, his look oozing speedster charm.

“Who said anything about paying?”