#he was trying to cling on to the one person he had and any semblance of purpose his code gave him

[omegas-spaghettios]

*The Acolyte Episode 5 Spoilers*

I think it's funny that after so much of the fandom saying the Acolyte is anti-jedi and pro-sith the sith's point of view is literally just "the jedi oppress me cause I'm not allowed to murder whoever I want 🥺😡"

[moonselune]

Drow noble who's grappiling with the knowledge that she's falling for a very much not-drow person. Good lord it's a man, too. The whole surface men thing is really fucking with her. Thank you!

yes omfg i love writing drow reader aha

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

As a noble drow, sworn to the spider queen, your world had always been one of rigid power structures, ambition, and ruthless cunning. Emotions—particularly love—were seen as weaknesses, and the idea of falling for anyone, let alone a surface dweller, was unthinkable.

Worse still, Gale of Waterdeep, the very man you found your thoughts continually drifting towards, was the antithesis of everything you had been raised to value.

He was human. A surface dweller. And a man.

You grappled with this knowledge constantly, the war between your upbringing and the unsettling warmth that had begun to take root in your heart. Drow society would scoff at such weakness. Lolth herself would probably strike you down for even entertaining such an idea. Gale was kind, intelligent, and often annoyingly optimistic—traits that would be ridiculed among your people. And yet… despite everything, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It was madness. He was nothing like the cruel, power-hungry individuals you had grown up around. Surface men were meant to be tools, meant to be used and discarded, certainly not respected. And yet, here you were, losing yourself to the idea of him.

Your thoughts churned as you sat quietly on a rock overlooking your camp. The surface was unsettling in its own way—the endless sky, the open space. It made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet, it was also freeing in ways you had never anticipated. Still, this love—or whatever it was—felt too dangerous, too uncontrollable.

You let out a long breath, trying to reason with yourself, when movement in the distance caught your eye. Gale was walking across the camp with his usual absentminded grace, his nose buried in a scroll as he meandered through the grass. You couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered on him—his messy brown hair catching the sunlight, his deep focus on whatever arcane theory had captured his mind this time. There was something calming about his presence, even if he was completely oblivious to the world around him.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, Gale tripped. His foot caught on a protruding tree root, and in the blink of an eye, he was sprawling forward, landing face-first in a particularly muddy patch of earth with a muffled thud.

You sighed audibly, feeling a mix of frustration and exasperation bubbling up inside you. Of course, this was the man who had somehow found his way into your heart—this clumsy, absentminded wizard who seemed more likely to trip over his own robes than navigate the world with any semblance of grace.

You could almost hear the cruel laughter of the other drow nobles if they ever saw this, and yet… despite it all, despite his ridiculousness, you felt something warm unfurling inside you.

Without even realizing it, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you watched him push himself up from the mud, wiping dirt from his face with a bewildered look. He glanced around sheepishly, trying to see if anyone had noticed his less-than-dignified fall. His eyes found yours across the distance, and he gave a half-embarrassed, half-amused shrug as if to say, "Well, that happened."

You shook your head slightly, muttering under your breath, “Idiot.”

But even as the word left your lips, there was no bite to it, no disdain. No, that was your idiot over there, bumbling through life with his mismatched socks and his endless passion for the mysteries of the Weave. As much as you wanted to deny it, to cling to the harsh, unforgiving rules of your upbringing, you knew the truth now. You were falling for him—maybe you had already fallen.

It was absurd. He was absurd. And yet, despite everything, you couldn't help but love him.

You rose to your feet, dusting off your armor as you made your way toward him. His eyes lit up with that familiar sparkle of affection and curiosity as you approached, but you could still see the streak of mud across his face, and it only deepened the exasperation you felt for him.

“You couldn’t watch where you were going?” you asked, your tone dry but laced with affection.

Gale chuckled softly, sheepishly brushing more dirt from his robes. “Ah, well, you know me. Too many thoughts in my head, not enough attention to the ground beneath my feet.”

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t stop the small smile that played on your lips. “You’re hopeless.”

He gave a charming grin, wiping the last of the mud from his face. “Perhaps. But I’m your hopeless mess.”

There it was again—that warmth, spreading through your chest and settling deep inside you. The part of you that had been molded by Lolth’s cruel teachings wanted to scoff, to walk away, but the larger part of you—the part that had grown stronger since you left the Underdark—wanted to stay. Wanted to be with him.

You sighed again, shaking your head. “Yes, you are.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The undercurrents of tension in the camp were subtle but undeniable, a silent hum that hung between you and Minthara. The evening had crept in, the flickering of the campfire casting long shadows on the ground as you sat across from her, the crackling flames making her eyes gleam with a mischievous edge. You’d been grappling with a strange sensation lately—one that didn’t sit well with you. It was as foreign as it was unnerving, this pull toward Astarion. A weakness, you told yourself. A distraction.

And yet, there it was.

Minthara’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she watched you, her sharp eyes never missing a thing. The tension between the two of you had thickened ever since you’d let it slip, in some small, unguarded moment, that Astarion had started to mean something to you. She had, of course, latched onto it immediately.

"That pale elf of yours," she drawled lazily, leaning back on her elbows as her smirk widened. "He’d make a fine concubine, wouldn’t you say?"

You stiffened, your hands tightening around the ornate handle of the goblet you held. She said it so easily, as if Astarion’s value was something she could weigh and measure, as if he was a trinket, an adornment. You should have agreed with her. The logical, Lolth-sworn part of you should have seen it the same way—a useful tool, a possession to command.

But that thought twisted in your gut, and before you could stop yourself, a fierce protectiveness surged through you.

"Don’t," you snapped, your voice low and cutting, sharper than you intended. You felt your eyes narrow as you glared at Minthara. "He’s not a toy for you to play with, Minthara."

Minthara’s reaction was instant—an arched eyebrow and a slow, creeping smile that made your skin prickle. She was enjoying this far too much.

"Oh, have I touched a nerve?" she teased, her voice a velvet purr. "Could it be that our cold-hearted noblewoman has fallen for her vampiric elf?"

Her words twisted inside you, and you hated how easily she could see through your carefully crafted walls. This was a weakness, wasn’t it? Astarion was a tool, an asset. But the thought of reducing him to something so simple made you feel… wrong. And now, here was Minthara, teasing you with the very thing you couldn’t admit to yourself.

Before you could muster a response, you heard soft footsteps behind you. Astarion sauntered over with his usual grace, his movements smooth and calculated, his smirk as ever-present as the shadows that clung to him. He stopped beside you, a curious look flickering in his eyes as he glanced between you and Minthara. He could sense the tension—he always could.

"Well, well, what have I stumbled into this time?" Astarion drawled, his voice lilting with amusement as he folded his arms across his chest. "I do hope I’m not interrupting anything too… serious."

Minthara’s eyes gleamed with wicked amusement as she looked at you, silently daring you to act. Here was your chance—your chance to prove you hadn’t fallen for him. To show that you were still in control, that Astarion was nothing more than a useful asset, a distraction to be managed, not embraced.

But you didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, without thinking, you reached for Astarion and pulled him close, wrapping your arms around him in a possessive, protective embrace. The gesture startled him, and for a brief moment, you could feel the tension in his body as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. But then his arms slipped around your waist, holding you with a surprising tenderness, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

Minthara’s smile grew wider, her amusement clear as day.

"Ah, I see," she said softly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "You have fallen for him. How adorable."

You felt a heat rise in your chest, a flush of both anger and embarrassment. Your grip on Astarion tightened, and you pointed a sharp finger at Minthara, your voice firm as you growled, "Go away, Minthara."

She chuckled softly, clearly pleased with herself.

"As you wish," she purred, rising to her feet with all the grace and confidence of a predator who knew exactly when to let her prey simmer.

She sauntered off into the shadows, leaving you and Astarion standing by the fire. The air between you felt heavy, your heart pounding in your chest as you clung to him, still not entirely sure what had possessed you to act so… openly. So vulnerably.

Astarion, for his part, seemed to enjoy it. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, "You do realize how fascinating you are when you’re all… possessive like that. Quite unexpected from someone of your upbringing." He pulled back slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Dare I say, it’s rather endearing."

You scowled, pushing him away gently, trying to regain some semblance of your usual composure.

"Don’t get used to it," you muttered, but the heat in your face betrayed you.

Astarion chuckled, his voice low and warm. "Oh, darling, I’ll cherish every moment of it."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The midday sun cast long shadows across the camp, where the sounds of practice swords clashing and the grunts of exertion filled the air. Your sharp, calculating gaze swept over the scene as you leaned against a tree, arms crossed in feigned disinterest. Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers, was at the center of it all, effortlessly guiding a group of refugees through rudimentary combat drills. His movements were precise, his words gentle yet firm as he corrected their stances and offered encouragement. It was a sight you should have found ridiculous, even pathetic. Yet you found yourself watching him—again.

The warmth of the sun felt like a strange, foreign thing on your skin, much like the warmth blooming inside you as you watched Wyll in action. He was so good—too good. Too moral. Too heroic. Everything you had been taught to despise in someone. Everything Lolth had warned you against. He was the antithesis of what a Lolth-sworn drow noble should admire.

And yet, here you were, your gaze lingering on the strong lines of his frame as he moved with that effortless grace that came from years of discipline. Wyll was just so… frustratingly kind. A champion of the downtrodden, always putting others before himself, always ready to leap into action to save those in need.

It was foolish. Self-sacrificing. Weak.

But that didn’t stop the traitorous flutter in your chest whenever he smiled, that disarming, earnest smile that made you feel things you shouldn’t—things that no drow noble should ever entertain. Lolth would never forgive you if she knew how easily you were falling for someone like him. A surface-dweller, no less. A folk-hero.

It was unthinkable.

Your grip tightened on your arms as you fought the feelings stirring within you. Weakness, you told yourself. This was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. Something to be controlled, suppressed, forgotten.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, Wyll turned his head toward you, catching your eye from across the camp. For a split second, your heart leapt into your throat, panic rising as you realized you’d been caught staring. His eyes lit up with that familiar warmth, and before you could even think to look away, Wyll smiled—one of those charming, roguish smiles that made your chest ache.

To your horror, he blew a playful kiss in your direction.

Your heart stuttered, your breath hitching in your throat as you felt a rush of warmth flood your face. It was a simple gesture, innocent even, but the effect it had on you was devastating. Your mind raced, torn between the instinct to glare at him, to scold him for being so foolish, so open—and the overwhelming urge to smile back, to let your guard down, to surrender to the inexplicable joy his presence brought you.

Lolth forgive you.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, forcing yourself to turn away, to tear your gaze from Wyll’s infuriatingly charming face. Your heart was pounding now, your mind racing with thoughts that should have been buried.

How could this happen? How could you be so enchanted by someone like him? He was everything you should despise, yet here you were, betraying everything you’d been raised to believe.

Wyll had gone back to his training, unaware of the storm he had ignited inside you. You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath your palm. The emotions you were grappling with—this strange, all-consuming pull toward him—were getting harder and harder to ignore.

You were a drow. You were supposed to be strong, calculating, superior. Love—true love—was a weakness, a vulnerability that Lolth herself had warned you against. And yet… Wyll’s goodness, his decency, was like a light in the darkness you had grown so accustomed to. He made you feel like you could be something more, something beyond the cold, ruthless confines of drow society.

And that scared you.

As you stood there, lost in your thoughts, you realized with a sinking feeling that you were already in too deep. You could no longer deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for Wyll, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The question was: What would you do about it?

Would you embrace this unfamiliar, terrifying feeling? Or would you push him away, burying these emotions beneath the weight of duty and tradition, as you had been taught?

For now, you stayed rooted to the spot, watching him from a distance, unable to look away for long. You’d never admit it out loud, but in that moment, you knew.

Wyll wasn’t just a distraction.

He was your undoing.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The campfire crackled softly in the evening air, casting shadows across the clearing. The night had grown quiet, the refugees settled into their makeshift shelters, and the others in your party tending to their own business. But you—your mind was in turmoil.

You sat alone at the edge of the camp, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if trying to ward off the whirlwind of emotions surging inside. You were a drow, a noble Lolth-sworn drow at that. You were raised in the darkness, taught to be ruthless, cunning, and strong. Yet here you were, grappling with something you had never expected, never wanted, and certainly never prepared for.

Halsin.

The very thought of his name sent a wave of frustration through you. He was everything you should despise—everything your kind was raised to reject. A creature of the earth, a druid who worshipped balance and life, someone who saw beauty in the natural world where you saw only the chaos of survival. He was gentle and kind, especially to the refugees you had originally deemed insignificant. His heart was far too soft for a world like this. And yet, it was that heart that had somehow wormed its way into your own.

You caught sight of him in the distance, helping a family reinforce their shelter. His tall, broad form moved with ease as he offered his strength to those in need, his calm voice carrying through the camp. You hated that your eyes lingered on him. You hated that the sight of him stirred something deep within you, something that made your pulse quicken and your thoughts spiral.

He caught your gaze, and your heart leapt in your chest. Halsin's warm, golden-brown eyes softened as he straightened and made his way toward you, his approach unhurried, but purposeful. You cursed yourself for not looking away, for letting him see the conflict etched into your features.

“Something troubles you,” he said gently as he reached you, his voice like the steady rhythm of the forest itself. He crouched beside you, his presence grounding and yet somehow deeply unsettling.

Of course he cares about you. That only made it worse.

You clenched your jaw, fighting to hold back the chaos swirling inside you. How could someone like him—so pure of heart, so rooted in kindness—make you feel this way? It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion, though the words were filled with no venom. They sounded hollow, even to you.

Halsin’s brow furrowed slightly, but instead of pulling back, he reached out, his large, calloused hand resting gently on your arm. His touch was warm, comforting in a way that only fueled your frustration.

“What have I done to earn such hatred?” he asked softly, his voice devoid of judgment, only concern. He was patient, as always, willing to wait for your response, willing to listen.

And that—that was the problem.

You felt your composure crumbling. Every wall you had carefully constructed, every defense you had built was breaking apart under his gaze. The dam burst, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You—” your voice cracked as you banged your head softly against his chest, fists clenched, anger mixing with something far more vulnerable. “You ruin everything.” You pressed your head harder against his chest, as if somehow his strength could erase the turmoil within you. “Damn you, Halsin.”

Without hesitation, Halsin wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. His touch was tender, gentle, and it broke you in ways you hadn’t expected. You stood there, your fists weakly hitting his broad chest before they fell limp at your sides, tears stinging your eyes. You couldn’t even summon the strength to push him away.

“Damn you,” you whispered again, your voice muffled against him, but it held no true malice. It was a desperate, anguished confession. You hated him for making you feel like this—for making you care.

Halsin’s arms tightened slightly around you, his breath warm against your hair as he held you. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, simply allowing you to lean into him, to release the storm that had been brewing inside you for so long. His presence was unshakable, a solid force of calm in the midst of your chaos.

“Whatever it is that troubles you,” he said softly, his voice low and soothing, “you don’t have to face it alone. I am here. Always.”

His words cut through you like a blade. How could he be so good? So kind? It made no sense, and yet you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that surged in response. You felt vulnerable, exposed in a way that terrified you, but you couldn’t deny it any longer. This man—this druid who was so unlike anything you had ever known—had become someone you couldn’t bear to lose.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t know what this means. I shouldn’t feel this way… not for you.”

Halsin looked down at you with that steady, unwavering gaze of his, his hand gently cupping your cheek.

"Perhaps not by the standards of others,” he said softly. “But the heart… the heart does not always follow such rules.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening at his words. The world you had known—the one ruled by darkness, deception, and power—was crumbling away, and in its place was something you had never expected: love. It terrified you, and yet, with Halsin standing there, holding you so gently, you realized that perhaps… just perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible after all.

And in that moment, as his warmth surrounded you, you allowed yourself to let go, if only for a little while.

“Damn you,” you whispered once more, but this time, the words were softer, filled with something closer to acceptance than anger.

Halsin smiled, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “Damn me, then,” he murmured. “If that is what it takes.”

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you didn’t fight it. You allowed yourself to rest against him, to feel the peace that his presence brought. Because, in the end, no matter how much you tried to deny it, you knew the truth: you were falling for him.

And there was no turning back.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I loved writing this and hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[itadores]

to the rescue!

synopsis: when you get cat-called on the street, who will come to your rescue?

note: he's such a cutie pie ^-^

pairing: nirei akihiko x gender neutral reader

word count: 1.4k

tags: gender neutral reader (they/them pronouns used), harassment (reader receiving), physical violence, first meetings

Free days are few and far between for you. Between club activities, a part-time job, and classes, the number of days you have free from all of that are rather limited. That's why you decide on your off-day, you're going to enjoy yourself. You're not going to think about any of your responsibilities, and instead, take yourself out around Makochi. You haven't had a chance to do so in a while, so it's perfect timing.

You make quick work of getting ready, packing a bag with all of the necessities for the day before leaving your apartment. It doesn't take you long to reach the main street, your apartment only a short walk away. Although you've walked this street many times before, it feels different since you're not in a rush to get from one place to another.

Today, you can simply enjoy yourself.

The sudden sound of somebody wolf-whistling at you makes you tense up, but you continue onward, walking further down the street. You don't look in the direction of the man who made the sound, hoping that your lack of response will make him drop it and leave you alone. Maybe, he wasn't even directing his attention at you, and you were being assumptive.

Unfortunately, you aren't that lucky.

"Where you going all by yourself, baby?"

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

Your hands tighten around the straps of your bag as you quicken your pace, going from a leisurely stroll to a brisk walk. You don't want to make a scene and out-right run, but you really want to put as much distance between you and this man as much as possible.

The air escapes you when a rough hand grabs the crook of your elbow, forcefully stopping you in your tracks.

"Hey, I was talking to you." The man’s voice hardens as his grip on your elbow borders on bruising. An involuntary yelp makes its way past your lips. "There's no need to rush sweetheart."

He’s in your personal space now, his face much too close to your own, but you still refuse to look at him. You don’t want to look at him.

“Please let go of me,” you weakly say, still clinging onto some semblance of hope that this man will somehow lose interest in you and let you be. It’s illogical, but you can’t squash that hope.

Even with your face turned away from the man, you can still see how his ugly cracked lips pull into a grin. Your stomach twists at the sight.

“Now, why would I do that?”

He leans in even closer, his breath hitting your cheek. Your face scrunches in disgust, and you screw your eyes shut, bracing yourself for whatever's to come.

"Leave them alone!"

The loud shout startles you, your eyes flying wide open and landing on a wavy-haired blond man, who's quickly making his way over to you. He ends up stopping just short in front of you, close enough for you to make out the smattering of freckles across his face.

It's a bad time for the thought to pop into your head, but he's kind of cute.

You're drawn out of your thoughts when the grip on your elbow tightens even more, causing you to grimace in pain. You try and squirm out of the man's hold, but he holds you still.

"This doesn't involve you, so why don't you just let us be?"

The blond's face hardens, his brows knitting tightly together.

"I can't do that when it's clear that they're not interested, and you're harassing them."

The blond's words ignite something in your harasser because he suddenly releases his grip on you, making you stumble slightly, to focus his attention on the other man. You take the opportunity to scamper backwards, away from the confrontation.

"What's your problem, man? Don't you know better than sticking your head in matters that have nothing to do with you?" He stalks forward, approaching the blond until he's nearly chest to chest with him. He's a good head or so taller than the blond, and worry starts to bloom in your chest.

Is that guy going to be alright?

Despite the height difference, the blond is seemingly unafraid, squaring his shoulders as he meets the man's heavy gaze. However, you notice there's an imperceptible shake to the blond, which he hides by balling his hands into fists.

"It's my business when you're harassing innocent people."

That seems to be the last straw for the man because he lifts his fist, ready to beat on the blond. You gasp and look away, unable to watch the man who intervened on your behalf get hit. There’s a loud thump and an accompanying grunt. Once you muster up the courage, you hazard a glance over at the scene, pleasantly surprised when you see your harasser on the ground rather than the blond. Well, the blond is on the ground, crouched with his knees and forearms tucked under him, but he looks relatively unharmed in comparison to the other man, who’s splayed out on the concrete unconscious.

The blond quickly springs up, dusting off his pants before coming up to you.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concern seeping into his voice. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"I'm alright," you slowly respond, still in a state of shock. Your elbow throbs when you try and relax your arm, causing you to wince and reminding you of your injury. Your other hand comes to clutch it, which doesn't go unnoticed by the blond.

"Oh no! You're hurt."

"It's okay," you rush out. When you're met with an unsure, disbelieving look, you try and assure the blond. "Really, I'll be fine. It's just some bruising that will go away soon enough."

"If you say so," he responds, entirely unconvinced. “If you need some ice for it, you can get some from Cafe Pothos. I’m sure that the worker there would be willing to give you some.”

“Thanks,” you say, rubbing your elbow to ease the pain as well as your nerves. Now that you’re no longer in any imminent danger, you’re becoming increasingly aware of how cute the man in front of you. You clear your throat before saying more.

“And thank you for intervening. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t step in when you did.”

A light blush spreads across the blond’s cheeks as he sheepishly rubs the back of his head. “It was no problem at all! I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

Oh, you think. You may be in trouble because he’s really cute when he’s blushing.

“What’s your name?” you blurt out.

The suddenness of your question catches you both off guard, but luckily the blond recovers before you have a chance to beat yourself up over it.

“Nirei Akihiko. Sorry for not introducing myself earlier.” The blond, Nirei, punctuates the end of his sentence with a slight bow. You do the same as you introduce yourself.

"Nirei," you say, testing out how his name sounds coming from your mouth. You find that you like the weight of it on your tongue. "Well, thank you once more, Nirei. I really appreciate your help."

Sensing that the conversation may be coming to an end, you go out on a limb to ask Nirei one more question.

"Do you think I could get your number? Just in case if I find myself needing your help again?" Your voice takes on a light-hearted tone at the end, a cheeky smile slipping onto your lips. You might as well make the best out of a bad situation.

Nirei looks taken aback by the question, a blush painting his cheeks once more when your words process in his mind.

"O-oh, sure!"

"Perfect," you reply, beaming. Mindful of your injury, you rummage through your bag, searching for your phone. Once you find it through the clutter, you hand it to Nirei, allowing him to input his contact information. You add a little smiley face emoji by his name when he hands you your phone back.

"I know I sound like a broken record, but thank you again, Nirei." You give him a little wave as you get ready to depart. "I'll see you around?"

"Y-yeah! I'll see you," he replies, sounding a little dazed.

It makes you giggle lightly as you begin to make your way down the street you were walking along before you were interrupted. Although you could have gone without the cat-calling today, you're glad you got to meet Nirei.

You'll definitely be reaching out to him sooner rather than later.

[inumkii]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ how you got together - inumaki x reader

bullet pointed scenario

genre: fluff, f2l

wc: 1.2 ish

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ an: hii this is my first jjk fic!! this might be the only thing i ever post LOLL currently ignoring my massive hiatus on my kpop blog T_T anywayss i wrote this super quickly its prob not the best ;p

i feel like toge would be the type of person to have you make a lot of the first moves

like when you guys were just stupidly pining friends, he made it pretty obvious that he liked you but wanted you to actually confess verbally 

it was mostly because he didn't want such a big milestone of starting your relationship to be texted or written by him but maybe like 20% of it was because he likes to be annoying

he's a little shit so if your the type of person to wait on the other person to make a move, good luck! because he’s making you do it

like there was a point were he was certain about both of ur feelings being mutual so he’d just play it up by being really touchy, making it obvious that he wanted to be right next to you, always clinging to you, etc.. you know,, making it obvious that he really does like you

but poor you because you were spending your time overthinking eveything. maybe he was just really touchyyy!! maybe he's extra comfortable around you!!! (i wonder why.)

it was actually driving your friends insane tho

maki’s last straw was during a training session out on the field, her and panda were sparring as you and inumaki watched on the steps

inumaki, as usual, was glued to your side, hands toying with the fabric of your long sleeve uniform

as maki landed her last hit on panda, you got up with their water bottles and ran them over to your two friends 

toge followed closely behind, still attached to your sleeve

you were balancing both of the bottles in one arm since the other was being occupied as toges leash of some sort, but you approached the other two like nothing was out of place

this sight wasn't anything new to panda or maki so they kept their scoffs and eye rolls internal. it was mostly just driving them crazy that neither one of you had made a move. it was obvious you both liked each other so why aren’t you guys doing anything about it??

“nice one, maki!” you cheered as the two grabbed their respective waters, toge let out an ingredient of affirmation as well

“ah, that was nothing” she proudly boasted, part of it directed as being a playful jab toward panda. she glanced down at inumakis hand attached to the end of your sleeve as he seemingly refused to be more than a few inches apart from you

“anyways,, im planning on grabbing lunch after this, yn, you coming with?” maki turned towards you

“sure!! i didnt have any plans,” you mused and you and maki set off and away from the field, toge still trailing behind as if following you was the obvious route to go

“just me and yn today, inumaki. sorry man,, go do something with panda” maki had no problem brushing off your friend, she was trying to get you alone which was something that seemed more rare as days go by (cough cough toge let maki have some time with her friend)

he laughed and backed away in compliance before giving your shoulder a quick squeeze as the four of you split off

once he was out of earshot, maki finally groaned

“you need to make a move already, its so frustrating watching you two cling to each other without doing anything about it” she complained as you felt your face heat up

you were well aware of toge’s touchiness and couldn't ignore his potential intentions behind it,, but yet there was this looming fear of actually enacting a confession that stopped you from going further 

“do you think he really likes me?” you asked pathetically. anyone’s answer would’ve been a loud yes,, but you still felt like you had to ask maki for some semblance of confidence 

she stared at you, an incredulous look breaching her face

“i cant believe you're asking me that question” she scoffed out a laugh, “but since you need to hear it. yes, toge inumaki is one hundred percent in love with you”

she left it at that, causing a permanent fluster to torment you for the rest of lunch

your lunch with maki had left you a little more confident about where you stood with toge, however. she had begged you to do something about it soon, claiming she couldn’t bear to witness any more pining

you had to do something about it soon or else you’d continue to sleep on her advice, overthink it, and never do anything about your problem,,,, it was now or never

you shot a text over to toge and waited on a nearby bench on school grounds

a few minutes passed with you spending them painstakingly fumbling with your phone case, picking off the stickers that were already on their last leg

there were so many times within those short seven minutes where you debated sending a ‘never mind! something came up’ to him

he finally showed up fairly quickly, joining the spot next to you on the bench

immediately discerning your nervous state, he placed a hand over yours

his action didn't do much for your nerves but it gave a little more hope that your confession would have a good outcome

(you were painfully unaware that no matter what you did, you had a 100% success rate)

he voiced his concern, squeezing your hand as you turned to face him

it felt like your heart was about to explode out of your chest but you had to rip the bandaid off

meeting his concern gaze, you finally said it

“i like you”

okay

maybe not the smoothest confession,, but given your anxiety over the situation, it was a miracle it was even said

all toge did in response was reach up to cup your cheek and smile 

his single expression gave you the answer you so desperately needed

pouring all his love and admiration into one expression, you hadn’t realized this was always how he had been looking at you

wordless communication though gazes and lingering touches had always been the way he was allowed to express himself

you had been overlooking it for too long, too caught up in your own mind to see the way he gazed at you like you were the only thing he ever needed to focus on, worthy of his attention at any moment you needed it

your heart melted on sight as you leaned into to press a kiss on his lips 

it was sweet, brief but not hasty. toge had always been good at placing his emotions into his actions and he made sure you felt everything he was feeling

the two of you parted before you leaned back in to place two more kisses, one on each side of his mouth where his seals were placed

he leaned in to your touch, pulling you in for a hug. as he buried his face in your neck, he breathed out a sigh that wordlessly expressed ‘you have no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this’ and you laughed into his hair

it might've been way overdue, but he’s here now in your arms, this time without the weight of wondering if your feelings were truly requited

oh an maki just got a text from panda of a blurry, zoomed in image of the two of you on the bench together from the distance

“fucking finally” -maki

[dmercer91]

the one idea that won’t leave my head is black cat!reader having a horrible day, and not caring who’s around, she’s laser focused on finding luca, and she just clings to him

and maybe there’s tears involved, maybe there’s not, but either way, she (accidentally) let’s a few of the boys see her for her

the team loves!!!! landen

so much

and they all want to comfort her so bad (the only one that tries is mark. no thoughts, head empty)

after the whole ordeal she and luca are at home and she’s like 😟 they saw me emote

i also realized after reading this that i’ve never given any context as to who the fuck lola is so! lola is landen’s ex girlfriend. they’d initially got the apartment that lan is living in with luca this year together and then landen found out that lola was cheating on her and had never really been wlw to begin with.

lola was bicurious and her friend group had told her to use landen as a test. she’d realized after the first night that she wasn’t actually bi, but continued to drag lan on because landen loves really hard and she would’ve done anything for lola

after the breakup- landen shut down and locked lola out of the apartment with bags of most of her stuff at the front door. the bags were taken and lola never got her stuff back.

lan felt really guilty about it but luca and adam have both told her a million times that it wasn’t her fault, she was upset and if anything the bags being taken was karma

when landen started having luca over at the apartment, they ordered food and lola ended up being their delivery driver. she figured this was her chance to get her things back and when luca opened the door lola got extremely jealous and pretty much refused to believe that landen could be with him

landen took that really personally, cause she honestly has a little bit of an insecurity that she’s not the typical hockey gf and that she’s in over her head

she took the food and slammed the door in lola’s face and she absolutely refuses to speak to her.

she often comes up to lan at parties and on campus to try and tell her off and threaten to sue- which only started after she found out about luca

landens offered to pay her off and luca has even told lola and her boyfriend several times that everything was a complete accident, but they think the worst of landen and refuse to believe it

feeling too hard | opposites attract au, lf63

landen walked into yost with her head down, looking at the shoes she walked by until she saw a pair she knew belonged to someone she’d be comfortable looking at, or talking to

when she saw seamus’, she paused, eventually deciding that if it wasn’t gonna be luca himself, or at least rutger- she was gonna take someone she knew would help.

she looked up, seamus immediately stopping in his tracks at the tears that were welted in her eyes.

“luca. i’m getting luca, one sec, lan,” he rushed, spinning in the direction of the dressing room and going right to lucas cubby

by the time the boys had reached her again, she was sat with her legs crossed on the floor and her head hung. luca kneeled in front of her, her body immediately shifting forward so her head was on his shoulder.

he adjusted, taking her arms and wrapping them around his neck as he sat down, pulling her into his lap and kissing her temple

“what’s wrong, pretty? what happened?” he murmured softly, seamus having left the two of them to talk with some semblance of privacy

“i’m so tired, lu. i didn’t sleep last night cause of my presentation, which went horrible, cause she prof kept cutting me off to tell me to talk louder,” she started, slouched against him in complete exhaustion

“n’ then i worked from 10-6 and everyone was so mean today, it was really busy. someone pushed cudo and then knocked over all his food. a lot of people just kept arguing and i was alone today,” luca frowned to himself, knowing that she’d probably not be so upset had she been the only one affected

she could take a lot on herself- but the minute someone she loves is facing the same feelings she shuts down. everything falls and the stuff she’d already gone through only piled onto her frustrations

cudo was one of her favourite things in the world

“lola came to the store at the end of my shift.” she said, and luca froze. his hand stopped gliding up and down her back and his lips parted in shock.

“i just wanted to be left alone and so i just stood there and let her talk and then i walked away mid conversation and went on auto pilot to get here. i just needed to see you and everything is happening all at once and i don’t-“ she took a deep breath, trying to collect herself before the tears trapped on her waterline started to fall

“i haven’t been this overwhelmed in a long time and i’m feeling too many feelings and i want it all to stop,” she breathed out, sniffling into his shoulder and closing her eyes tight.

luca squeezed her closer, heart aching as he felt her finally start to cry, her body shaking in his arms.

“shh, angel. i’ve got you,” he whispered, holding the back of her head and keeping his lips pressed to her nose, kissing in between his sweet nothings.

he pulled the hat off his head, brushing her bangs back out of her face and putting his hat on her, backwards so that the hair would stay out of her face. he tightened it, fixing his hair slightly

“there, pretty. got your hair out of your face. i can get you something to eat? or i can have shea bring you my sweater,” she just nodded, looking up at him from his shoulder with shiny eyes and a sad look.

“alright, come on,” he helped her up, pressing a kiss to her lips before guiding her over to where they kept all the food, some of the guys that had been eating eyeing them a little.

she grabbed a bottle of water, a fruit cup and a granola bar, looking up at luca to confirm that she was ready to go back out to the hallway.

“i gotta get my gear on, pretty. but i’ll bring you my sweater and you can go sit on the bench. know you get hot, and the sound of our skates might drown out that head of yours’ hm?” she nodded, pulling him down to kiss her lips again

once she’d gotten his sweater, she made her way to the ice and sat cross legged on the bench, opening up her granola bar.

mark was the first one to get out onto the ice, taking a lap and then stopping at the bench.

“do i have to fight anyone? i’ll fight someone.” he joked, giving her a dumb grin as she chewed on her snack and eyed him, unsure.

“god?” his smile widened, and he nodded

“and i’d win,” he winked, taking off for another lap as she looked at her lap, fighting a smile.

[amiya-shirou]

I used to be super critical about everything in Dragon Ball back when I was an edgy teenager but looking back at it now with a changed perspective there are many of the things I called bad writing that I feel much better about due to seeing them more from a "what does this say about the characters/how does it help the series?" lens

"It makes little sense and is an annoying form of powercreep how the most powerful villain in the galaxy and the legendary Super Saiyan in the next arc are just fodders compared to some dumb ass cyborgs built on Earth" maybe, but it does wonders for Vegeta's character arc. You see how much he was clinging to the idea of the Super Saiyan to regain his lost pride. You see him finally achieving it, surpassing both Freezer and Goku, beating the first being his lifelong aspiration. All of this just to be clowned on by a mechanical being, his ideal warrior state being stomped by someone literally just created in a lab? that was great, actually

"everyone comes back to life so there is no tension..." ok but on the flip side this means that Toriyama had ample space to make his villains absolutely terrifying because there was no limit to the atrocities they could do, no protagonist you would be sure they'd 100% win against them or at least survive. especially with Buu this reached the furthest point where absolutely nothing was safe from him, none of their usual countermeasure worked, none of the places where they usually gathered could give some semblance of security, not even the planet itself was safe and Piccolo even had a cool scene where he pragmatically sacrifices humanity just to get the smallest bit of extra time. which to me gave it so much more tension compared to other battle shounen where sure, they might not have a reliable "come-back-to-life" system, but because of that you just know they're almost never going to kill any major character especially if one of the protagonist, limiting the ways the villains can raise the tension. Also there are many cases when the characters die thinking they can't be resurrected so you can still feel the weight of their decisions when they sacrifice themselves (Vegeta vs Buu being the most notable example, with his resurrection also giving a very literal "dying and being reborn" narrative for the last step of his growth as a person!)

Like, not saying Dragon Ball is above criticism because it isn't, and ofc you can still be annoyed by these things, but often it only gets the criticism due to not exactly following what some people see as "textbook good writing" with no effort to try to see the flip side or the potentially positive aspects of it

[eksvaized]

Part Six [ Previous 〡 Next ]

As you sit on the bed, your posture is rigid, almost painfully so. Your back is unnaturally straight, thighs pressed tightly together in a futile attempt to maintain some semblance of control. Your eyes are fixed on Simon, unblinking, as if you're trying to memorize every single detail you hate about him. Your hair, drenched and heavy with water, clings to your neck and shoulders. The cool droplets are slowly seeping into the fabric of your shirt, soaking it until it clings to your skin. Despite all appearances suggesting that you are fully immersed in the present, that you're hanging onto every word the man in front of you is saying, your mind is a chaotic whirlpool of thoughts and emotions.

As much as you yearn to silence your mind, to eradicate the incessant thoughts that relentlessly hark back to the bathroom and what had happened there, they persist. They circle your mind like vultures waiting to swoop down on their prey.

The ghost of Simon's touch lingers on your skin. The memory of it branded deep into your memory. His touch is still palpable, almost as if his palms are still there, resting against your wet soapy skin. Even though his hands are now at his sides, the memory of how his fingertips traced your flesh, how they mapped your body, seeking out the spots that made you squirm, that elicited any reaction other than crying or whimpering, is still fresh in your mind.

"Are you even listening to me, Y/N?" Simon sighs deeply. It's a quiet sound filled with exasperation and something else that you can't quite identify. He shakes his head, and that gesture seems to hold more significance than you can comprehend right now. Uprooting himself from his spot, he grabs the chair from the desk and positions it next to the bed. He sits down. His body is now directly in front of you, his gaze unwavering.

You lower your chin in a slight nod, acknowledging him. Yet, no words manage to make their way past your lips. Your throat constricts at the mere thought of speaking.

"Then repeat the rules."

You bit the inside of your cheek. There's a pause that stretches between the two of you. A long, tense pause that has Simon leaning closer to you. His hands rub together anxiously before he wipes his palms against the fabric of his shorts. You catch a fleeting glimpse of an emotion etched onto his face, a longing for something that you can't quite place. Something about his expression tells you, whispers to your gut instinct, that if you don't want this conversation to veer into dangerous territory, you need to come up with an answer. And you need to do it quick.

"If I want to stay in... in my room—" You echo the first thing he has said to you, and you try not to cringe because this doesn't feel like your bedroom at all. It's too big, devoid of any personal touches, lacking in colour and warmth. And most importantly, it doesn't even feel like a room. It's just another cell that you will be confined in, a gilded prison with invisible bars. "—and not be put back in the basement, I have to behave."

You hope the answer will be enough to satisfy him, but Simon jerks his chin, urging you to continue, to say more. Your heart drops like a stone in a still pond, ripples of anxiety spreading outwards. You didn't listen to him. Well, you did, but only superficially, so now recalling what he was speaking about is a challenge that you are terrified of failing.

"I can't leave the room unless I need to go to the bathroom, and even then, I'm not allowed to turn the shower on or fill the bath by myself. If I want to bathe, first I need to get permission from you."

Each word is wrenched from your lips, akin to plucking thorns from a deeply embedded wound, one excruciating prick at a time. You speak at a snail's pace. Your voice is barely a murmur. And while you talk, you can't help but wonder why Simon suddenly allows you to wander around the house, even if it's only limited to one long corridor. Something seems off. The only reason he might allow it that you can think of is that he wants to test you, to see if you will attempt to escape. All of this leads to a sudden realization, one that you might have had once but forgotten in the haze of your fear — your attempts to flee must cease. The mere notion of escape must be buried deep within, hidden away like a priceless treasure, until you have earned enough of his trust.

"Downstairs is off-limits." That's the second rule.

"Good," Simon reclines in the chair, making it creak under his weight. After crossing his arms over his broad chest, he asks "What else?"

"I must learn how to fold paper flowers." Out of the three rules, this is by far the most peculiar. The rationale behind it is unclear. It leaves you puzzled as to why this skill is necessary, why he wants you to learn it. When Simon first informed you of this rule, he gestured towards a book which you had failed to notice earlier, resting inconspicuously on the nightstand. Instead of using plain, white sheets of paper, he specified that flowers must be made of the pages of the book.

When you tried to ask how to fold them, an art foreign to your hands, you were met with Simon's curt reply: Figure it out. His answer made it clear he probably didn't know how to do it, either.

An uncomfortable silence fills the room again. It's heavy and oppressive. You find it impossible to maintain eye contact, as if his gaze is a blazing sun that blinds you. Your eyes droop to your lap, tracing the pattern of goosebumps on your legs — physical manifestation of the unease that you feel.

Simon's watchful gaze is ever-present, observing your every move with hawk-like intensity. You felt like a mouse under his scrutiny, small and vulnerable. These silent moments are the ones you hate the most. When he is talking, it's easier to tune him out, to lose yourself in your own thoughts. But when he is silent, it's harder to ignore his presence, harder to pretend that you are anywhere but here. You long to be back in the comfort of your own home, nestled securely in your bedroom, far from here and far from Simon.

"Later tonight, you must get ready for our first date," he says and stands up. A hint of anticipation flickers in his eyes.

A sensation, unfamiliar and as intoxicating as a sip of aged wine, akin to hope, burns within your chest. The hope is like a lone candle illuminating the vast darkness of uncertainty. Could it be that he is planning to take you out to some remote restaurant? The idea dances in your mind. It's a sweet symphony of possibilities that you allow yourself to indulge in, if only for a fleeting moment. But reality, ever so cruel, crushes the budding dream before it can bloom. Simon, you remind yourself, is not one to act recklessly. He would never risk setting you free, letting you wander outside the confines of this house. This realization sends a shiver of anxiety rippling through you, leaving you to dread the unknown plans he has for you.

"In the wardrobe, there's a pretty skirt you could wear. I think it would fit you nicely," he suggests, but the tone of his voice leaves little room for disagreement. His words, veiled as a gentle suggestion, carry the weight of an unmistakable command.

"You should rest now," he continues, crossing the room like a prowling lion until the space separating you is no more than a whisper. As you raise your chin, the sight of his toned abdomen greets your eyes. The faint outlines of his muscles are visible through the thin fabric of his shirt.

With a firm yet gentle grip, he encircles your elbow, pulling you up. He steers you towards the bed. A part of you resists the notion of surrendering to sleep in his presence, but the prospect of temporary oblivion proves too enticing. Perhaps, you think, the comforting embrace of slumber will grant you a temporary reprieve from your grim reality.

Before leaving the room, Simon tucks you in with a gentleness that seems almost foreign. His lips softly press a ghostly kiss against your forehead. The touch is so unexpected that it makes you recoil instinctively. You clutch at the covers, pulling them tighter around your body, drawing them up until they're almost grazing your jawline.

The door closes with a soft, almost imperceptible click. Your ears strain, leaning into the silence, awaiting the metallic sigh of the lock sliding into its place. But it never comes. The tantalizing possibility of an unlocked door tempts you, whispers sweet promises of freedom, urges you to shake off the covers and confirm it for yourself. But something holds you back, an invisible chain forged from fear, and you remain as motionless as a statue.

All of this seems too good to be true, like a mirage shimmering on the horizon of a parched desert, too pristine, too perfect to be anything but a cruel illusion. After enduring what felt like an eon trapped within the lightless, cold basement, being in a room with windows, with the sunlight streaming in, feels like a dream. Yet, it's not merely a dream - it's a bewitching siren's song, luring you in with its alluring beauty only to hide a monstrous nightmare beneath its captivating guise.

You sigh and close your eyes, letting the sun's warm tendrils brush against your eyelids. Maybe you — Simon — should have closed the curtains.

You struggle, you really do, to fully comprehend what Simon wants from you. His behavior is a complex puzzle that is difficult to decipher. There are times when he treats you terribly — his temper flares easily, driving you to the brink of tears, and his harsh treatment makes you want to bash your head against the wall until it all is over. You are trapped, kept like a captive in the prison, unable to escape or breathe. He treats you like some kind of pet, an object under his control. He toys with you as if you are a doll, a plaything that existed solely for his amusement and whims.

But then, like the flick of a switch, his demeanor would change. He would morph into a boyfriend who appears to be overly controlling. Yet, if you squint and tilt your head just right, you could convince yourself that his actions are because of an overbearing concern for your welfare.

This is all so twisted, so warped. Just thinking about him, trying to unravel the enigma that he is, and formulating plausible explanations for his actions, is a mental exercise that leaves you with a headache.

And yet, despite it all, a tiny part of you, a minuscule fragment of your consciousness, betrays you. You don't want to feel any form of gratitude towards him; you resist the urge to be thankful. But no matter how hard you try, you can't quell the burgeoning feelings of gratitude that are taking root deep within you. Because, despite everything you had to endure thus far, you find a slight comfort in the fact that you are no longer confined to the dank, dreary basement.

A/N: I appreciate all the comments, likes and reblogs! you guys liking this really makes my day <3 and since this is a story that I write when I have free time, and when I just want to unwind, I don't have an outline for it yet and am just winging it, so if you have any ideas or suggestions for what you would like to see happen, I'm all ears! :) also, I was thinking of creating a taglist, so if you want to be added -- let me know.

[fishbrain-glubglub]

She's Not Here

If anyone were to ask the BAU who the epitome of masculinity was, they would all immediately point towards their Unit Chief: SSA Aaron Hotchner.

The man effortlessly oozed masculinity. His solid 6’2” stature framed perfectly in his tailored suits made many mouths water at the sight, daydreaming about the body that lay in waiting underneath. Not a day went by where at least one person hadn't drooled over his stubble-peppered jawline, claiming it was sharp enough to effortlessly cut glass. His signature stoic aura only emphasized his classic alpha male status to any passersby familiar or not to the man. There was no doubt to anyone's mind that Aaron Hotchner was what every man dreamed to be.

But standing in only his boxer briefs in front of his bedroom mirror, all Aaron could see was everything he deemed wasn't manly. His hips were too wide despite being surrounded by well-toned muscle after decades of running and UnSub chasing. His jawline, while covered in stubble not yet shaven, wasn't as sharp as many of his admirers claimed it was. His shoulders, while looking wide and commanding in a sharp suit, felt narrow and small bared for his room to see. His chest bulged in all the wrong ways despite the faint twin scars bordering the bottom of each toned pectoral. Despite the decades of time Aaron had worked to achieve his current form, he could still see her poking through every insecurity he kept hidden, taunting him with the same dark chocolate eyes that sent even the most hardened UnSubs cowering.

A scowl glared back at him in the mirror as he crossed his arms defensively across his chest. The phantom ache of utter wrongness seeping from every inch of his skin began to rapidly bubble to the surface. No matter how hard he tried to quell her from resurfacing, she always managed to seep through the cracks, blasting a neon sign to reveal all of his obvious flaws to the world and to himself. He couldn't seem to shake the ghost of her presence no matter how hard he tried. It was days like this that he wondered why he even tried so hard to be himself, to be comfortable in his own skin.

A tiny flash of silver caught his eye in the mirror before two familiar lanky arms enveloped him from behind, pulling Aaron out from his mental spiral. A calming warmth spread against his backside before the caress of soft lips peppered his shoulders.

“Keep glaring at the mirror like that and it might just confess.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped from Aaron's lips as his gaze left his own and settled on bright amber hues eyeing him lovingly from behind. His arms never left their tight embrace over his chest, but his stance softened significantly. He let his shoulders sag and gently leaned back into the comforting embrace of his husband.

Spencer gave Aaron's torso a soft squeeze, beginning a gentle sway of their body's to a tune unheard by Aaron but calming nonetheless.

They stayed tangled in front of the mirror until Aaron's arm finally fell from their tense state across his chest, turning his back to the mirror and nuzzling his face into the crook of his partner's neck. His hands settled on Spencer's hips as Spencer snaked his hands up his husband's torso before settling around Aaron's neck. They continued to sway to an unknown tune in the comfort of their room hidden safely away from the rest of the world. Aaron was so lost in Spencer's embrace that he hadn't realized he had begun to tremble until he heard his husband begin to gently soothe him.

“Shh, sweetheart. It's okay. I'm right here.” Aaron felt one of Spencer's hands begin to caress the hairs on his neck, causing his already shaky resolve to fracture further. His arms tightened around his husband briefly, desperately trying to cling to any semblance of his hardened stoic mask as he could.

“Aaron.” Spencer's hand left his hair to cup his face, pulling Aaron from the safety of his partner's neck. He kept his gaze down and away from the growing concern in his husband's eyes and tried desperately to reign in his emotions.

Spencer was having none of it. “Aaron,” he repeated, rubbing gentle circles on his husband's trembling cheek. “Honey, please. Talk to me.”

Aaron instinctively shook his head, not wanting to voice his thoughts. If he said them out loud, it meant admitting they were true. He desperately clung to the silence, wanting to cling to his masculinity as long as he could.

Aaron felt his husband sigh. He closed his eyes, mentally preparing for the worst: Spencer telling him he couldn't be with someone so unmanly as Aaron. Spencer withdrawing and leaving him to deal with his internal turmoil on his own. Spencer telling him to suck it up and deal with it like a real man. 

Deep down, Aaron knew these scenarios would never happen. Spencer had seen Aaron at his lowest many times over, had known his deepest secret longer than the rest of the team - save for Rossi who had known since Aaron had originally joined the FBI. They wouldn't have gotten married if Spencer hadn't been confident in their commitment to each other for the rest of their lives.

That still didn't stop Aaron's mind from jumping to the worst at every moment it could.

A gentle hand under his chin snapped Aaron's gaze to his husband's, finding nothing but concern and worry in the comforting amber eyes. Spencer's frown pulled his brow down in a way Aaron wanted to kiss away, instantly hating himself for putting that look on his face.

“Why don't you finish getting ready, okay?” Spencer's hand returned to his cheek, rubbing soothing patterns against the peaking stubble. “I'll be right here when you're ready.”

With a small nod, they untangled themselves from each other before Aaron walked over to his dresser, ignoring the mirror as much as he could. It only took a moment for him to slip on the thin shirt before turning back to their bed.

Spencer had already settled on his side of the bed, watching his partner with caring eyes. Aaron crossed the room quickly, turning off his bedside lamp before slipping under the covers and settling against his husband, holding him as close as he could without suffocating the man.

Aaron was grateful for the few moments Spencer allowed them to stay tightly embraced. He knew he would have to talk about it soon, but for a moment, he could lose himself in the embrace of the man he trusted everything to. He siphoned as much love and comfort he could before Spencer shifted, squirming his way out of Aaron's close embrace and forced their eyes to meet.

No words were spoken at first. Spencer had resumed the comforting patterns on Aaron’s cheek, providing a grounding presence to his inner turmoil. After a few more silent moments, Aaron closed his eyes and braced himself.

“She won’t leave me alone.”

Arms immediately wrapped around his shoulders, pulling Aaron close to the warmth of his husband’s chest. Tears he wasn’t previously aware of began to stream down his face as he took in a ragged breath, all of his pent up emotions flooding to the surface. It was as if the dam holding back all of his frustration broke at the contact. Silent sobs wracked his body as he felt the soothing hum of Spencer’s voice against the man’s chest.

“Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Spencer resumed carding gentle fingers through Aaron’s short locks. “She’s not here anymore, remember? She hasn’t been here in a long time. All I see is my amazing, strong, handsome, sexy husband.” A weak wet laugh cut through the quiet sobs. “I’m serious!” Spencer added with a smile in his voice. “Do you know how many men and women I catch eyeing you at the office? Hell, the amount of times I’ve caught Morgan eyeing you out of jealousy in the past two weeks and three days alone should be enough proof. That’s not even mentioning how many whispered conversations I overhear in the bullpen from JJ and Emily on what you look like underneath your suit on a weekly basis. JJ, who is perfectly happy in her marriage to Will, and Emily, who hungrily stares at every woman in a short skirt who walks past her desk. Rossi might seem like a neutral party, but anyone can see the smirk he hides in his morning cup of coffee when you open the door for a poor intern as they practically trip over themselves to follow. Garcia doesn’t even need an explanation. And don’t even get me started on the amount of LEOs I’ve caught eyeing you in your vest. It should be downright sinful to look as rugged as you do with your sleeves rolled up, gun in hand, commanding the scene with only a glare.” Spencer chuckled softly, scratching Aaron’s scalp. “That’s not even touching the amount of glazed over faces I spot when you talk. I’m sure you could get almost an entire room of highly decorated officers to do whatever you wanted with a single command. Any deity knows I would comply to your sultry voice in an instant.”

Laughter had rapidly replaced the sobs shaking Aaron’s body. He hid himself against his husband’s chest, covering his blushing cheeks from Spencer’s generous observations. “Spence,” he whined.

“I swear, Aaron, it’s a good thing you're married. Otherwise, you’d have people throwing themselves left and right at you. You’re the perfect male specimen. Hell, even I’m jealous of you, and I’m the one that married you!”

Aaron couldn’t hold back the eyeroll as he peaked out from his hiding spot. He felt his face split into a wide grin before replaying Spencer’s words in his head, his smile faltering. He glanced away, muttering softly under his breath, feeling himself tense all over again.

“Hey, hey. Don’t do that.” Spencer cupped his face with one hand and forced their eyes to meet. “What’s wrong, love?”

A sigh escaped Aaron’s lips before he whispered, “I’m not the perfect male specimen.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Aaron let out a dejected huff. “I’m not the perfect male specimen,” he repeated a little louder. “I can’t even-” His voice cracked. “I don’t have… I couldn’t…” Tears blurred his vision. “Haley had to… Jack isn't even-”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Aaron.” Spencer propped himself up on one elbow, still cradling Aaron’s tear-stricken face with the other. “Whatever you’re thinking about stops right now. You, Aaron Thomas Hotchner-Reid, are that boy’s father. No amount of DNA tests or medical insemination procedures with sperm donors can tell you otherwise. You have raised Jack from the very beginning, and you have done it wonderfully. He is growing into such a bright and confident young man because you are showing him how. You are an amazing father, and I know for a fact that Jack wants to grow up to be just like you.”

Whatever argument Aaron had to counter died on his tongue as Spencer leaned down for a soft kiss. There was no heat or alternative motive behind the gesture. It stayed soft and gentle, soothing Aaron’s inner turmoil. Reaching up, he wrapped Spencer in his arms and pulled the man down to his chest, soaking in the love and care from the contact. They laid together, wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing gentle kisses until the last bit of tension left Aaron’s body. After one more press of their lips, Spencer scooted down his body, snuggling into his chest and resting his ear right over Aaron’s now calm heart.

“Now sleep,” Spencer muttered, already half asleep. “You need your energy to ward off all your admirers at the office and to take your husband on an extra long lunch break tomorrow.”

Aaron frowned. “What are we doing that requires a long lunch break?”

He felt Spencer’s sleepy mischievous smile against his chest “You’re going to prove to me just how manly you are.”

“Oh really?” Aaron couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “And how am I going to do that?”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with a few ideas.”

As Aaron kissed the top of his husband’s head and settled in for the night, he couldn’t help but think of all the ways he would prove Spencer right.

[alexandralyman]

Grounded

(Frankie Morales/OFC/Javier Pena)

For my partner in crime, @meanderingcaptainswanmusings - a very belated birthday fic featuring Javier, Frankie, and the lucky OFC who gets stuck with them in an abandoned cartel safehouse for the night. Whatever will the three of them do to pass the time?

(hint: they're going to do her. this is porn wrapped in some semblance of plot. all 11,000 words of it)

Rating: E

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50894950

grounded

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Agent Peña practically spat the words, hands planted firmly on his hips and standing almost toe-to-toe with his opponent in the argument that had been going on for the better part of an hour now to an audience of one. As if on cue, immediately following the words there was a clap of thunder from outside that was so loud it made her teeth rattle, and the machine-gun retort of the rain started up again.

“No we are fucking not!”

Captain Morales almost had to yell to be heard over the downpour, his arms crossed over his chest and his easy smile replaced with a heavy scowl. “I don’t know about you, Peña, but I sure as shit don’t have a goddamn death wish. Trying to take off now would be suicide.”

They glared at each other some more, two stubborn mules practically pawing the ground and breathing hot out of their noses. She almost expected them to start head-butting each other. Neither one backed down in the silent stare-off until Agent Peña finally said, “We’ll take a vote then. Majority rules.”

Two heads immediately swiveled to look at her then, the third person on this failed mission and therefore the tiebreaker who would make the decision to stay or to go. Two pairs of dark eyes as thunderous as the storm outside fixed on her face and she could practically feel each of them silently willing her, “Pick me.” As fellow DEA, she should be on Agent Peña’s side, as someone who also didn’t have a death wish, she was leaning more towards Captain Morales.

Peña was going to be pissed, but everyone in the agency knew that was his natural state anyway and she was no exception.

“I’m with Morales,” she said at last, gaze sliding away from the betrayal on Peña’s face. “He’s the pilot, if he says it’s not safe we should do what he says and wait.”

“Ha!” Captain Morales crowed, moving to stand next to her. “Thank you, Agent, that’s exactly right, you should do what I say. And I say we stay right here. Majority rules, right, Peña?”

Agent Javier Peña had the look of a man who knew he’d lost but was unable to admit defeat. Without saying a word he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and jammed it into his mouth before stalking off without a backwards glance. Not that he could go very far in the two-roomed house with rain coming down so hard outside that it was enough to wash away any sin and leave you stripped bare and clean as the day you were born.

“Dick,” Morales said to the retreating back, rolling his eyes. If Peña heard him, and he must have, he didn’t stop. Once he’d disappeared into the other room Morales pulled off his baseball cap and raked his fingers through his hair, still wet from when he went outside earlier to check on the condition of the runway. He’d already shed his tactical vest and the shirt underneath was damp too, clinging to his broad shoulders and plastered to his chest. She admired the view, considering there was fuck all else to do at the moment. The raid was a bust, the rain had made both leaving and communications impossible, and she hadn’t exactly brought along a book to pass the time. Outside there was nothing but dense Colombian jungle in all directions for miles and the pounding against the ramshackle building grew even louder, it had to be absolutely pouring out there. The weather had turned on a dime and turned on them, from clear skies to a Biblical deluge in a matter of moments.

“We’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Morales answered her unspoken question while attempting to wring out the hem of his shirt and revealing a sliver of bare stomach over the waistband of his jeans in the process. She admired that too. It wasn’t very professional of her, but after almost two years of undercover work where she had to give up everything, her name, her friends, her family, her whole life, in pursuit of the greater good, she wasn’t going to turn herself into HR over some harmless ogling. Captain Francisco Morales was a good-looking man and she was a DEA agent, not a nun.

“If you say so,” she said, giving him a little two-fingered salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

He chuckled at that, looking amused instead of his earlier annoyance. Peña’s absence probably helped.

“We’re basically off the clock now. Please, call me Frankie.”

The request was accompanied by a wink. She hadn’t known Morales long, but it was enough to know he was a bit of a flirt. Not in a gross way, though, and nothing she couldn’t handle, as a woman stationed in Colombia surrounded by men who viewed flirting as much the national sport alongside tejo.

“Well then, Frankie,” she drawled back, dragging the name out. “I guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

His smile grew wider, as if being stuck in an abandoned cartel safehouse in the pouring rain for God only knew how long with her (and Javier Peña, a little voice in her mind helpfully reminded her) was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Lucky me,” he said.

Lucky her.

********

The cigarette did absolutely nothing to calm the rage that was simmering under his skin, threatening to boil over like an unattended pot left on the stove. It burned right down to his fingers in only a few deep inhales, leaving behind a long, unbroken snake of ash that fell to the floor in one piece. He ground it out under his boot, the dark smear matching his darker mood.

Javier swore under his breath and lit another, swearing even louder when he burned his thumb on the lighter thanks to his own carelessness. He blew out a lungful of smoke and stuck the thumb in his mouth, trying to suck away the pain like a small child coming down from a tantrum, a comparison that was probably a bit too apt at the moment. As much as he hated to admit it, Morales had been right. It was clearly too dangerous to try to take off in such bad weather, no matter how much he wanted to run away from this utter clusterfuck of a mission.

His utter clusterfuck.

The intel had been good, he would have bet his damn badge on it. A cartel safehouse hidden deep in the jungle that was only accessible by plane, used to stash drugs, guns, cash, anything they wanted to keep away from both the DEA and their competitors. He’d received the go ahead after some lobbying⸺aka being a giant pain in the ass about it until he received grudging permission⸺to put together a strike team and conduct a raid. Warrants had been signed, equipment requisitioned, all requiring even later than usual late nights at the office and careful planning to ensure the cartel didn’t catch wind of it and clear out beforehand. A team of three, the maximum that would fit in a plane small enough to land on the makeshift runway hand-carved from the underbrush like a scar carved into the cheek of a snitch. Two DEA agents, and a pilot who could also handle a gun, just in case. That meant borrowing one from the military through some backdoor channels.

Captain Francisco Morales, call sign “Catfish”, of all things, was the pilot. He’d flown them to the painstakingly acquired coordinates and landed on the barely visible runway, lining up the Cracker Jack prize of a plane with clear skill and a baseball metaphor about sliding into home at the bottom of the ninth. Javier had mostly ignored him, too focused on the sight of a building that had been hidden under the tree canopy, right where his informant had said it would be. The safehouse. He’d taken the point position once they exited the plane, all sweating under their tactical gear, guns drawn, running through every possible scenario of what lay behind the rusty door except for the two things they’d actually found.

Jack, and squat.

The house had been empty, no drugs, no guns, no cash. All that was left were some marks scored deep in the floor where things had clearly been moved in haste, an empty shipping crate, and a scattered deck of cards that must have been used to kill time along with a dog-eared porn mag that Morales poked with the toe of his boot, both eyebrows raised under his decidedly not military-issue baseball cap.

“Looks like we missed all the fun,” the pilot had said, clearly bemused by the whole situation.

Javier had grit his teeth so hard he could still feel the ache in his jaw even now, like someone had socked him one. Clearly all that meticulous planning and late nights had been for fuck all, the house had been emptied of anything useful unless they wanted to play Go Fish or jerk off to Miss September and while he definitely wanted to throttle something at the moment, it wasn’t that.

Then the rain had started.

Morales had bolted outside as soon as they heard the first drop hit the roof and when he came back in again with water dripping from the brim of his hat he insisted it was too dangerous to take off again until the weather cleared and they would just have to wait until then, however long it took. Javier had argued with him about it for over an hour, more out of annoyance at the failed bust than actual disagreement. If Murphy were here he would probably have his own completely unhelpful opinion to add, but his usual partner was stateside at the moment so he had to bring in another agent instead on the op who was now an eyewitness to what was sure to be the talk of the DEA when they returned empty-handed. Javier Peña tilting at another windmill, the Don Quixote of Colombia.

He didn’t know if not having Steve here to serve as his Sancho was better, or worse.

The agent he’d chosen had done a stint undercover and knew the cartel, understood how they operated as well as anyone at the agency. Better than most at the agency, the paper-pushers who never left their cubicles and clocked out every day at five on the dot. Undercover assignments were dangerous for any agent, and even more so for a woman. He’d brought her in because he was genuinely impressed with her work every time one of her reports crossed his desk and wanted her insight, despite what anyone else might think about why he’d handpicked her specifically. Like all undercover agents she was only referred to by a code name within the agency in case of moles or leaks, never her real name or the false identity she was given. One was “Lobo”, the wolf, one was “Escorpión”, the scorpion, it went without saying that both of them were men. Hers was Cariño, a backhanded compliment to demean her accomplishments in the field by reducing her to nothing more than what a girlfriend or mistress would be called. Darling. Sweetheart. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Cariño.

Javier never thought he’d wish he was stuck in the jungle for who the fuck knew how long with Steve Murphy, but that thorn in his side of a partner would be far preferable at the moment to a woman who’d more than held her own against the cartel for so long and wore her code name as a badge of honour instead of an insult. If Murphy had taken Morales’s side over his, sure, he would have been pissed, but there wouldn’t have been the sudden churn of jealousy deep in his gut like there was when she did. They were both DEA, they were supposed to stick together, goddammit. The fact that Morales had spent the entire mission prep sneaking interested glances at her whenever she wasn’t looking sure as shit didn’t help matters. Javier wasn’t sure if she’d noticed, but he certainly did. Fucking flyboy. And now thanks to his childish hissyfit they were cozying up together in the other room because he’d dragged them both here and left them alone before he did something even more stupid than think with his dick, like punch Morales in the face.

And the absolute cherry on the shit sundae of a mission was the fact that he only had a half pack of cigarettes left. Less than half, he realized, peering into it with a grimace.

He exhaled the last of the one he was currently smoking, watching the cloud of smoke dissipate into the empty room. From the other he could hear the murmur of voices, the lower tone of Captain Morales mixed easily with hers. Agent Cariño. Darling. Sweetheart.

Not your sweetheart, Javi. Not yours.

*******

Contrary to what Agent Jackass Peña clearly believed, Frankie hadn’t been exaggerating the danger of trying to take off in the pouring rain on that joke of a runway. If anything, he’d been downplaying it. He’d seen longer driveways, for fuck’s sake.

Luckily there’d been a hanger, or, more accurately, a shed with a sheet of corrugated metal painted green to serve as a roof that was clearly meant more to hide a plane on the ground than to protect it from the elements. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and with his plane stowed away there was nothing to do now except wait out the rain with his two teammates once Peña had finally accepted they weren’t taking off until Frankie said they were, goddammit. And with the way it was still pouring, that wasn’t going to be anytime soon. He hadn’t said it out loud, but they were probably going to be grounded here all night. That was going to be a treat, with that chip on Peña’s shoulder currently about the size of a 747.

As if she knew what Frankie was thinking, the other agent chimed in with, “Cut him some slack,” from where she was currently sitting cross-legged and serene as Buddha on the dusty floor. He, by contrast, was sitting with his back to the wall, legs akimbo, in defiance of his military training. This wasn’t a military op so he decided he was allowed, just like he’d gotten to wear civvies instead of uniform since officially he was here in a private capacity to cut through the red tape.

“I stand by my earlier assessment. He’s a dick.”

She didn’t argue with him, merely lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a dick who’s trying to bring the most powerful drug lord in Colombia to justice. You can’t do this job and not be a dick.”

“You aren’t,” he pointed out.

“I’ve frequently been called a bitch.”

Frankie wasn’t surprised by that, but he didn’t like that he wasn’t. “By insecure dicks, I bet.”

“True,” she agreed, cocking a finger at him while her gun stayed holstered at her side, “but never by Agent Peña.”

He glanced in the direction Peña had left, feeling his estimation of the man go up a notch. Then it went down again. “Wait, didn’t he call you honey or sweetheart earlier? That’s not better.”

“Oh, the Cariño thing? That’s not really his fault, it was my code name when I was undercover. I still get called it all the time at the agency. When I’m not being called a bitch, that is.

Frankie felt his eyebrows shoot up on his face. “Your code name is Cariño?”

Who the fuck came up with that? Must have been another one of those DEA dicks, it sounded like a delightful place to work.

She looked amused. “Isn’t your…callsign, right? Isn’t your callsign Catfish?”

“Yes,” he sputtered, “it is, but, seriously, Cariño?”

“Yes, seriously, Catfish.”

She had a lovely smile, another point in her favour over her dick of a partner. Frankie wasn’t sure if the man was even capable of smiling. Other points that he’d noted over the last few days while preparing for the mission were her laugh, her face, and most recently, the fact that she’d sided with him over Peña. That last one might be a little petty, but Frankie didn’t give a shit.

“Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll cut him some slack. But only for you, Cariño.”

He said the endearment with as much exaggeration as possible, rolling the R like he was trying to start a propeller with his tongue. His reward was a full laugh as she stood up, brushing the dust from her thighs. The pants she was wearing were utilitarian, almost military, and shouldn’t look that good on anyone.

“Don’t worry about Peña. I can handle dicks like him, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Frankie kept his mouth shut despite all the retorts that immediately sprang to mind. While he sure as hell wouldn’t mind being “handled” by her, he also wasn’t stupid enough to actually say that out loud.

“C’mon,” she said, holding her hands out to him. “Let’s go raid the kitchen, since there’s nothing else here to raid. Maybe we’ll have better luck finding something to eat.”

He let her help pull him to his feet, even though he didn’t really need the assistance. Still, it would be rude not to accept the offer. When he stood up to his full height he rocked forward a bit on the uneven floor, thrown off balance and taking her with him thanks to their joined hands. She instinctively grabbed his biceps to steady herself as they regained their footing, standing close, so close to each other, an unnecessary apology on her lips.

“You okay?” he asked, his own hands hovering in the air around the vicinity of her waist just in case he needed to catch her. She was shorter than him, he had to look down to meet her eyes while she looked up, her head tilted back, making his mind wander down a road that it definitely shouldn’t take on an op. Like how easy it would be to bridge the gap, close the bit of distance that was left between them.

So easy.

But Frankie Morales wasn’t that kind of a dick.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

And if it took them perhaps a moment too long to step away from each other, what was the harm? The mission was over, unofficially, anyway, and there was no one around to witness it.

Except there was. Frankie sensed eyes on his back and his hand drifted towards his gun out of habit as he glanced over his shoulder. Agent Peña was there, arms crossed over his chest and a deep frown under his carefully groomed mustache. How long had he been watching? How much had he seen?

“Catfish?” she called, when he didn’t follow.

Now Peña was looking at him.

“Coming, Cariño,” Frankie replied, unable to resist.

Peña’s frown deepened even more. Frankie knew that look now and it gave him a moment of pause as the implication sunk in.

Jealousy.

**********

The safe house kitchen, if it could be called that, since the slapdash building lacked such upscale amenities as electricity and plumbing, consisted of a camp stove, a five gallon bucket, a few canned goods that were thick with dust, and some decidedly unwashed dishes. They were decorated with a rather incongruous floral pattern, as if a hardened drug smuggler had taken them from his grandmother’s house.

None of it looked very promising.

Until she found the bottle of whiskey.

The unopened bottle of whiskey, seal still intact.

“Oh Cariño, you’re breaking my heart,” Frankie said to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia when she showed it to him, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “Can’t drink and fly.”

“Suit yourself.”

They both turned at Javier’s voice, drawn to the promise of alcohol like a good Catholic looking for something to feel guilty about. That was another thing about the job, the guilt. You couldn’t do it and not carry some of that around too. He almost shoulder-checked Frankie when he walked past him to snag the bottle from her and squint at the label. Frankie rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Dick,” behind his back.

“Luckily,” Javier continued, “you and I don’t have that problem, right Cariño?”

He smiled then, with a clear challenge in the curl of his lip as he effortlessly broke the seal and opened the whiskey with a twist of his wrist. Clean glasses were another non-existent amenity, so he took a healthy swig right from the bottle as easily as if he was drinking water and then held it back out.

The liquor numbed her lips and burned her throat, it was strong. The kind of thing you drank when you wanted to forget what you did with a nose full of coke and a gun in your hand. Javier took the bottle back and his second pull was even longer than the first. If even half of what was said about him around the agency was true, he definitely had a few things he probably wanted to forget.

So did she. Undercover work did that to a person.

“You puke in my plane, I’ll throw you out of it mid-air, don’t think I won’t.”

Frankie directed it at Javier, not her, which didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed agent.

“I suppose she gets a pass, huh?” Javier asked, more a statement than a question with a clear edge in his voice.

“She didn’t drink half the damn bottle in one go.”

“I can hold my liquor, Morales. Maybe you can’t, but I can.”

He took another healthy swig to punctuate the jab, long throat bobbing as he swallowed, while Frankie looked to be about a heartbeat away from punching him despite his earlier promise to cut him some slack. Not that she blamed him, Javier had taken all the slack and then just had to give the rope another tug. The tension between them was palpable, two very different men stuck together with nothing else to do but argue.

Two very attractive men with nothing else to do, a less than helpful part of her mind chimed in. She blamed the whiskey.

It went down much easier the second time, when she swiped the bottle back from Javier’s unresisting hand and took another pull of her own. They both fell silent as she did, and even though her eyes closed when she tipped her head back and bared her throat to let the amber liquor slide down it she could feel them watching. When she handed the now considerably lighter bottle back to Javier he took it without a word, still watching with an intensity she could practically feel against her skin. They both were.

It was kicked up a notch when she started to open the clasps on her tactical vest, two pairs of dark eyes widening in surprise as she loosened the straps and pulled the damn thing off. It was heavy, not really designed for a woman, and the weight of it along with the damp heat had left the shirt underneath plastered to her body so that it clung to every line and curve.

“There now, that’s better,” she said, setting the vest aside.

“I agree.”

It was Javier who spoke, in a whiskey soaked voice that burned more than the liquor.

“Me too.”

Frankie clearly wasn’t going to be left out and she smiled at him, not minding the appreciative look on his face at all. She’d admired him, so fair was fair, after all.

“At least there’s one thing the two of you agree on.”

They gave near identical amused snorts in perfect unison at that and it made her grin go wider.

“Cariño,” Frankie said, his tongue rolling deliciously over the endearment she also didn’t mind coming from him, “I think most men would agree on you. Peña?”

“He’s…not wrong,” Javier admitted with a bit of a cough, like it cost him something to agree with Frankie but he wasn’t going to deny it completely, giving the tiniest of nods towards the other man.

This wasn’t how she expected the night to go, but after days and weeks and months of pretending to be someone else, giving up her own needs, her own wants, even her own goddamn name, in service of the greater good, she was more than ready to slip back into her own skin. To drink whiskey without fear of getting drunk and revealing too much to the wrong set of ears, to flirt with the man (or men) she wanted to flirt with instead of whoever the agency told her to bat her eyelashes at next, to not have to guard her tongue or watch her own back in the field, constantly on edge and constantly feeling alone.

She wasn’t alone now.

The rain continued to lash against the safe house from the outside like a spurned lover demanding to be let in, clearly not about to end anytime soon.

Frankie moved first, crossing the distance between them and standing so close that she had to tip her head back to look up at him, just like earlier.

“Was it good?” he asked, voice low and intimate. “The whiskey?”

She held her hand out without looking and Javier silently passed her the bottle.

“Why don’t you taste it for yourself?”

With that she took another healthy swig, coating her mouth with the smoky liquor and pointedly not offering Frankie a drink. His gaze dropped to her mouth, her invitation clear. A hand curled around her hip, pulling her closer to meet the long line of his body. Her free hand went to his chest, spreading flat and feeling the broad expanse of muscle that lay hidden under his shirt. Frankie dipped his head and tasted the whiskey from her lips, from her mouth, demanding entrance with his tongue to chase every last, lingering drop. She felt more than heard him groan low in his throat, whether from the alcohol or the kiss or from both. The hand on her hip tightened and pulled her closer, leaving no space between them, her breasts pressed to his chest and the clear evidence of his desire against her stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips when they finally had to break apart for air. “Wanted to do that all fucking day, you have no idea.”

Her own voice was high and breathless, “Yeah?”

There was the sound of a throat being cleared somewhere behind her and she twisted in Frankie’s arms to see that Javier was just standing there watching them make out like teenagers at a party and thinking God knew what about the little display. Or maybe only el Diablo knew just what was going on behind those shadowed eyes at the moment. Frankie traced a slow, deliberate circle with his thumb on the jut of her hip that was incredibly distracting as she looked at Javier, but he said nothing.

“I can leave if you want me to,” Javier offered at last, “Well, not leave,” he added, since none of them could, at the moment, “but I can give you two some…privacy.”

Javier had watched her kiss Frankie, a kiss that was still clinging to her lips more than the whiskey. The burning desire in his gaze hadn’t been doused by watching her embrace another man, if anything it was fanned even higher. Before undercover work, before the agency, it would have been unthinkable, too depraved, too forbidden, an unspoken sin. But she’d seen too much to still cling to those old beliefs, Javier had as well. You couldn’t do this job and stay the same person you were, before.

“You can stay if you want to, Javier,” she said. Stay, she thought. Both of you.

“That’s not what I asked. What do you want, Cariño? Do you want me to leave so Morales can fuck you in private the way he’s clearly been itching to ever since the two of you met? Do you want me to stay and watch him fuck you? Or, do you want me…”

He moved then, silent and lethal, like the raid was still on and he was moving into position to strike at his chosen target. Maybe he was. Javier was so different from the more laid-back Frankie, so intense, so driven, and she could only imagine what it would be like to have all of that focused solely on her. May God have mercy on her soul, she knew with absolute certainty what he was going to ask and what her answer was going to be.

“…to join you,” Javier finished, his gaze dragging along the length of her body like a pour of the amber-dark whiskey and heavy with promise.

The pound of the rain outside was barely audible now over the thump of her heart in her chest and the almost painful throb of need and want between her legs. Undercover work had taught her how to lie more easily than telling the truth, but she couldn’t deceive herself about this. What Javier was offering—what they were both offering—or were they? Frankie’s hand had stilled on her hip, though he hadn’t moved away and his body was warm and solid against her back. As if he knew what she was thinking Javier looked over her shoulder, at the third person in this possible equation.

“You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Morales?”

The stupid rivalry between them was clearly far from over, there was a clear challenge in Javier’s tone as he stared Frankie down, one corner of his lips hitching up in the tiniest smirk. Not about to be outdone, Frankie slipped his fingers under the hem of her shirt, stroking the skin just above her waist.

“Whatever the lady wants is more than fine with me, Peña,” he said. Then he leaned down and spoke directly into her ear, she could feel the warm breath and the faintest graze of his mouth as he added, “it’s up to you. Say the word, baby. Say the word.”

What did the lady want? She wanted Frankie, with his easy smile that made her feel sixteen again and that deft navigator’s touch all over her body. She also wanted Javier, with his single-minded drive and that slow, sinful grin that promised pure satisfaction. Say the word and they would both be hers. Say the word and she would be theirs.

For however long they were stuck here, that is.

When she held her hand out to Javier and beckoned him closer he took it, letting her pull him forward until she was pressed between them. Frankie dipped his head and kissed her neck, his scruff rasping deliciously against the delicate skin. Javier was more clean shaven, cheeks and chin bare, only the mustache that tickled her lips when he cupped her cheek in a broad palm and kissed her too. His kiss was harder, rougher than Frankie’s, like he wanted to drink her in as voraciously as he’d drunk the whiskey. His free hand fell to her other hip, opposite of where Frankie’s hand still rested so that she was being held by both of them, swaying back and forth against the press of two hard, thick outlines, one to her ass, the other to her stomach. Clear, physical evidence (she was a DEA agent, she always needed evidence) that both of these desirable men wanted her and wanted her badly enough that they were willing to share despite the animosity between them. It made her more light-headed than the whiskey, knees going weak enough that she wrapped an arm around Javier’s neck to keep herself upright. Their strong hands guided and coaxed her, as pliable as a rag doll between them while they both marked themselves on her skin.

While there wasn’t much in the way of furniture, there was a makeshift bed comprised of some cots that had been left behind, and Frankie had brought in blankets from the plane after it was clear they were spending the night. It would do. They started stripping off her clothes together, Frankie unbuttoning her shirt while Javier slid her pants down her legs, hands roaming over her back and thighs as more and more of her was exposed to them. When she was down to just her bra and panties, plain, boring, get the job done underwear because she sure as hell didn’t get dressed for the mission this morning thinking that anyone was going to see them, Frankie laid her down on her back on the cot. He knelt between her legs and rubbed a thumb on the edge of his lips as he looked her up and down, her already rosy skin flushing even more at the scrutiny.

“Now these,” he said at last, sliding his hands up the outside of her thighs to where the waistband of her panties sat at her hips, “definitely need to come off too. Don’t you agree?”

It was directed at Javier, not her. He had lost his own tactical vest and his shirt was half undone, tempting hints of chest and stomach peeking through that made her mouth water.

“Si,” Javier agreed. “She’s still far too dressed.”

“She is. Let’s fix that, shall we?”

Hearing them talk about her like that was a much bigger turn on than she expected, like she was theirs to do whatever they wanted with. When Frankie hooked his fingers in her panties to pull them off she lifted her hips to help, while Javier watched from where he was standing. Frankie was already shirtless, his bare shoulders pushing her thighs apart as he lowered himself down and hooked her legs over the broad width of them. He placed an open-mouthed kiss just below her navel, and then another one a bit lower, mapping out a trail until he reached his destination with the same unerring accuracy as he did in his plane.

Fuck. He was good. Really good. Some men were as perfunctory about this as a child grudgingly eating their vegetables to get dessert, Frankie was not. He dove right in, spreading her with his thumbs to open her fully to his eager mouth. Long, broad strokes with the flat of his tongue were alternated with using the tip to tease her clit, making her gasp and jerk against him as he kept at it until it was almost too much to take. She glanced down and saw he was staring up at her even as his mouth stayed busy against her cunt, and then the bastard actually winked at her and gave a particularly devious swipe that had her head falling back against the scratchy airplane blanket and her eyes screwing shut. One hand sank into his hair, twisting in the curls to keep herself tethered to something, anything, as a high-pitched cry was pulled from the back of her throat and echoed in a deep groan from where his face was buried between her legs. Frankie was obviously enjoying this too.

The cot dipped as a weight settled on it and she opened her eyes to see Javier had joined them, shirt gone and jeans unbuttoned but still zipped. His erection was straining against the denim, she wanted to reach out and cup her hand over it, feel the shape and the weight in her palm.

“Does it feel good, Cariño?” Javier asked, as casually as if they were discussing the weather and not Frankie eating her out like she was a five-course banquet. He ran a finger delicately down the slope of one breast and just brushed the nipple under her bra, making it stiffen even more. “Is he making you feel good?”

“Yes,” she managed to gasp, “Fuck…yes.”

“She tastes fucking incredible,” Frankie mumbled, barely lifting his head long enough to get the words out before diving back in. He was using his fingers now, pumping two in and out in a steady rhythm and flicking his tongue over her clit. Javier leaned down and kissed her again, swallowing every moan, hand on her breast. She could feel the wave of pleasure about to crest, riding the sensation Frankie was drawing out with his mouth and hands until he pushed those two fingers deep inside while curling his wrist just right and sucking hard on her swollen clit. They might be grounded for now, but he made her fly straight into bliss, soaring high for long moments until she came down at last. Frankie looked incredibly smug about it, crawling up her body in a prowl and sharing the taste of herself in his mouth like she’d shared the whiskey with him, weight braced on his arms and caging her underneath him.

“Your turn, Peña,” he said after another kiss that was a sweet peck, in sharp contrast to how he’d just had his mouth pressed hotly between her thighs. He rolled over to the side and propped his head up on his hand, clearly intending to also take his turn as the observer. “Show our girl a good time.”

The part of her that had fought her way up the ranks in the DEA against a veritable wall of patronizing men who’d nicknamed her darling should absolutely hate that, but that part was drowned out by sheer, voluptuous satisfaction at the way he’d both claimed her and offered her up to Javier on a silver platter in one fell swoop. Still, she wasn’t just theirs tonight, they were hers and before Javier could climb on top of her she pushed him onto his back instead and moved to straddle him with a leg slung over his hips and her hands on his chest. He didn’t protest, skimming his fingers up her ribs and roaming across her back to blindly undo the clasp of her bra. It was the last bit of clothing she had on, but any attempt at modesty was long gone by now and she let him tug it down her arms and toss it aside. He immediately cupped her bare breasts, she could feel the calluses wrought by long hours at the firing range to blow off steam and the endless reams of paperwork that still had to be filled out by hand. His touch was just the right side of rough against her tender skin, the wide palms and long fingers working in tandem to roll and weigh and knead.

“Did you enjoy the show?” she asked, looking down at him. A corner of his lips lifted in amusement while he rubbed her nipples with his thumbs and made the tight points even tighter.

“What do you think? Watching a beautiful woman getting pleasured, knowing I’m going to make her scream even louder next, what’s not to like?”

There was a snort from Frankie at that little bit of one-upmanship, but he didn’t say anything in response and only settled his head more firmly on his hand. She’d give Frankie something he’d enjoy, watching her take Javier down a peg first. Her hands spread flat on his chest, holding him down as she shuffled backwards and dipped her head. She placed a kiss to the plane of his sternum, swirled her tongue around a flat nipple and was rewarded with a clear hitch in his breathing, and then started to make her way down the expanse of golden skin with more licks and kisses and little nibbles. When she reached the line of hair that ran down his stomach from his navel and disappeared under his jeans she nuzzled her nose into it, finding it to be surprising soft instead of coarse. There was another hitch in breath from above and the muscles in his abdomen contracted when she ran her tongue down the downy line. His jeans were peeled down his thick thighs with a little difficulty since he wore them tight enough to count the spare change in his pocket, and once he was laid out naked underneath her something else she’d long since suspected was revealed at last.

Agent Javier Peña packed considerably more than just heat.

And from the shit-eating grin on his face as she just stared, the bastard knew it. No wonder he was such a dick.

“Like what you see?” he asked, putting one arm behind his head and sounding way too satisfied. That was clearly a rhetorical question.

Payback was a bitch and half the DEA thought she was one anyway, so she kept her gaze locked with his while she leaned down and let her tongue dart out to just barely graze the swollen tip, gratified to see his smile flicker a bit. After a few more kitten-licks that were more suggestions than actual contact to build the anticipation, she opened her mouth fully and swallowed him down in a hot slide. Javier let out a noise like someone had just punched him in the stomach as she took him deep, a sharp inhale that melted into a low groan while he went even harder and throbbed against her tongue.

“Dios mio,” he swore. “Fuck!”

Javier Peña was a dick, and an asshole, and an assortment of other unflattering sobriquets that he wore proudly around the office alongside those ridiculously tight jeans, just as she owned her thinly-disguised insult of a code name, but he was putty underneath her now. He let her set the pace, not trying to guide her with rough hands pulling at her hair or thrusting up to fuck her mouth despite the want she could practically feel thrumming under his skin. She went over him like an ice cream cone on a hot day, swirling her tongue over the blunt head of his cock and licking all along the thick shaft as if she was chasing errant drops, before swallowing him down again as deep as she could. Eventually he couldn’t hold back any longer, letting out a string of curses as his hips started to jerk upwards.

“Your fucking mouth. Take it, that’s it, fuck baby, take me deep, just like that. So good, fuck, so fucking good.”

A quick glance up revealed that his head was thrown back against the cot, his chest heaving and the cords on his neck starting to pop as she drew him closer and closer to the edge. Frankie was still watching, one hand shoved deep into his jeans and obviously stroking himself to the show. When their eyes met he winked at her and pursed his lips in a kiss. Having him watch while she sucked Javier off made her burn even hotter, to have not just one, but two men so obviously turned on was making her positively ache between her thighs like nothing else ever had. Getting off once thanks to Frankie’s talented mouth wasn’t nearly enough, she wanted, needed, both of them to fuck her before this was over.

Javier clearly felt the same because he suddenly pulled her off him, his hard cock slipping from her swollen lips and slapping against his stomach with a wet thwack.

“Not done with you yet,” he muttered, voice edged like a knife and sitting up to manhandle her around until she was on her hands and knees. Frankie slid under her as he did, so that she was looking down at him while Javier knelt behind her. There was the unmistakable rip of foil and somehow it wasn’t a surprise that he had condoms, it was probably as much a habit for him to carry them as his gun and the ever-present pack of cigarettes. Maybe she should be offended that he brought them on the raid, but it would be pretty damn hypocritical of her in her current position.

“Didn’t peg you for the Boy Scout type, Peña,” Frankie called over her shoulder. “Always prepared, huh?”

“You should be thanking me, Morales. And you probably were a Boy Scout, so fuck off.”

“Nah. I’m quite comfortable where I am, thanks.”

She couldn’t believe they were still bickering with her naked between them, knees spread on the outside of Frankie’s, ass in the air, being served up to Javier on a fucking silver platter.

“Do you two really need me to be here or do you just want to argue with each other instead?”

A large, warm hand ran along her back, pressing down a bit to make her hips tilt up even more.

“So demanding, Cariño,” Javier tsked, “when this is all for you. Now pay attention, Morales, and watch how it’s done.”

Still. Fucking. Bickering. Men. She looked down at Frankie with a scowl that wasn’t entirely mock. He didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest by it. If anything he was clearly enjoying himself, grinning and pulling her down for a deep kiss that made her annoyance melt away. The man and his mouth were a devastating combination.

“Brace yourself against me, sweetheart, while he takes you for a ride,” Frankie murmured against her lips before giving her another kiss that made her toes curl and her clit throb. “I’ve got you.”

“We’ve got you,” Javier corrected, starting to push inside. Her eyes fluttered shut, he was thick and hard and as wet and ready as she already was, his sheer size gave her body pause for a moment as if it didn’t know whether to accept or reject him. She groped blindly for Frankie with a gasp, feeling him hold her with sure hands.

“Fuck, so tight,” Javier muttered through gritted teeth, his hips stilling and fingers digging into her skin. “Baby, are you-”

“Do it,” she interrupted, wanting to feel this, feel them, for days afterwards. “Fuck me, Javi.”

Whether it was the order or the fact that she’d just called him “Javi” for the first time, he cursed again, low and filthy, and thrust forward in a hot, hard slide that had her clutching Frankie’s wide shoulders while she opened for him. A desperate sound pulled from her throat at the sensation of being filled at last. Javier didn’t stop until there was nowhere else for him to go, buried so deep that she could feel the brush of his pubic hair as his hips went flush with hers. Her back arched, pushing back against him and keeping the entire thick length of him locked in her body. She could hear him breathing, harsh, ragged sounds, the hands on her hips holding her in place as neither moved for several moments.

“Eyes on me,” Frankie coaxed, hands running up and down her arms. His face swam back into focus when she blinked down at him, looking up at her with his hair still a mess from when his head was buried between her legs. “Look at me, baby, look at me while he fucks you.”

They held her between them as Javier finally started to move, long, deep strokes that echoed right down to her bones. She was going to feel this alright, especially after she had Frankie too. He cupped her breasts, thumbed the hard points of her nipples, touched every part of her he could reach while Javier fucked her from behind. It was loud, drowning out the rain with the slap of skin on skin, the desperate sounds when she bent to kiss Frankie, her moans in his mouth and Javier’s own rough grunts mixed with the wet slide of his cock into her over and over again. All three of them moved in tandem, Frankie, the anchor, still bracing her with his arms while Javier chased his release, hands also roaming her body as he continued to thrust. A particularly hard one had her digging her nails into Frankie’s skin with a sharp gasp.

“Oh!”

“So gorgeous, watching you get fucked,” Frankie bit out. “My turn next, you’ll let me fuck you too, won’t you, sweetheart? You’ll let me slip right into that delicious pussy and make you come on my cock just like you did on my tongue.”

All she could get out was a desperate whine at the filthy words because, fuck, she wanted that too. So, so much.

“Say yes,” he urged. “Please, baby, say yes.”

She nodded her head, lips forming the word even though she couldn’t get enough breath to actually say it out loud. Yes, he could have her too. He could have anything he wanted.

“Not done with you yet,” Javier practically growled, bending over her back. One arm went around her waist and the other around her chest to pull her up, away from Frankie with her back pressed to Javier’s front. The movement wedged him even more firmly inside her, right against the sweet spot that had her nearly limp in his arms as her head lolled back against his shoulder. He lifted her so that her knees went clear off the cot, taking her entire weight and the sheer display of his strength was almost enough to send her hurtling over the edge again.

“Javi!”

His mouth pressed right by her ear, hips still thrusting up to bury himself deep inside over and over again. The hastily pushed-together cots swayed and squeaked madly with the motion, it was a wonder it hadn’t all collapsed already with the combined weight of the three of them. Even if it did, she still wouldn’t want to stop.

“Look at him,” Javier muttered, voice harsh, as harsh as the battering ram of his cock currently demanding her surrender. “Look at him, desperate to fuck you too. Got us both, didn’t you, you greedy little thing? Fuck, you feel so good riding my cock dulce niña, I fucking knew you would, fuck!”

The arm around her waist dipped lower and she felt his fingers slide down her stomach, over the rise of her mound to just above where they were joined so intimately. He quickly found her swollen clit, rubbing it with sure, swift strokes that had her arching against him with a cry. Javier’s strong thighs held hers apart, unable to do anything except shudder

in his arms and take everything he was giving her. Frankie watched them, his hips moving to the same rhythm as he openly fucked his fist to the sight. He must have been close because he suddenly yanked his hand away and twisted it in the airplane blanket instead, his chest heaving and his head tipping back with a grimace as he fought the urge to finish. He was holding off until it was his turn.

The thought sent another rush of heat between her legs and, coupled with the unrelenting press of Javier’s clever fingers, she clamped down hard on his thick cock as her orgasm washed over her in a wave of sheer bliss.

“FUCK!” Javier swore as he got caught in the riptide too, both arms wrapping around her tight and holding her in a vice grip against his broad chest as he fucked her through it almost savagely, making sure she would still feel him afterwards.His own groan of satisfaction was a deep rumble, his hips stuttering as he came with a throb and pulsed while she kept squeezing him tight and holding him deep inside. She reached back and threaded soothing fingers through his hair, damp with sweat, while his head dropped to her shoulder and his heart raced against her back. Javier’s arms loosened a fraction, his hands stroking up and down her own sweat-slicked skin to help calm them both as they came down.

Her eyes had closed of their own volition and when she opened them the only thing she could see was Frankie, looking nearly as wrecked as she felt. Jesu, he was still hard, still ready, he’d waited for her and she still wanted him too, just as much if not more. He sat up and she reached for him while Javier let her go, his softening cock slipping out with the motion. Frankie kissed her, needy and with the faint taste of herself still clinging to his lips.

“That was so hot, baby,” he said between kisses. So fucking hot.”

Behind her she felt Javier move away, giving them more room as Frankie eased her down onto the bed. He cupped the back of her head in one hand while the other was all over her, gliding over bare skin that was flushed a deep rose and extra sensitive to the touch now that she’d had not one, but two spectacular orgasms. It made her shiver despite the fact that she was anything but cold, shaking uncontrollably in his arms as he pulled her close to his chest and soothed her with his gentle touches and whispered words.

“Holy shit,” she managed to gasp, clutching desperately at his biceps as she tried to get her bearings back, feeling that same sensation that she’d experienced in the tiny plane after takeoff of being untethered to the Earth.

“Too much?” Frankie asked, peering at her with concern. “Is it too much? We can stop-”

She shook her head before he could even finish, leaning in to kiss him again. It was too much, but God, the last thing she wanted was to stop. The rain and the whiskey and the two handsome men orbiting around her like she was the sun had awakened a bone-deep craving that wasn’t fully satisfied and wouldn’t be, not until she’d had them both. Frankie was still erect, cock hard and flush with his stomach, and the noise he let out when she reached down and wrapped her hand around him was practically a growl.

“I want you,” she whispered against his plush mouth, feeling him shudder as she pressed a line of kisses along his jaw, grounding herself in the solid weight of his body and the heat from his skin.

Frankie’s dark eyes bored into hers, practically burning with lust. “You have me baby,” he promised, “you have me.”

He was thick and long, like Javier, velvet wrapped over steel in her hand. She gave a twist of her wrist on her next stroke, just under the head, and his face contorted in sheer, unguarded bliss before he pulled her hand away from his cock, kissing her palm in apology.

“Not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

Javier decided to remind them both that he was still in the room, letting out an amused huff. “Can’t keep up, flyboy?”

Frankie didn’t spare a glance in his direction. “I can keep my plane and my dick up, don’t you worry about that, Agent.”

That got a snort of derision in response, though a moment later a condom landed on the cot, almost hitting Frankie in the face in the process. A peace offering from Javier Peña, the night was full of surprises. Frankie put the foil packet in his mouth to hold it, giving her a cheeky wink while he stripped his pants the rest of the way off. Naked, he was just as mouth-watering as Javier, broad-shouldered, long legs, a waist that would fit perfectly between her legs and a cock that would fill and stretch every inch of her. Frankie grinned around the condom when he saw where she was looking and tore it open with his teeth.

“Ready?” he asked, quickly rolling it on. “Ready for me now, Carinō?”

The stupid code name sounded a lot better coming from him than the assholes at the DEA, it was an endearment again instead of a not so thinly veiled insult. She spread her legs in clear invitation, more than ready for him. Frankie settled himself on top of her, cock in hand and rubbing it up and down her still-slick entrance without pushing inside. Her breath hitched in anticipation, her soft inhale mixing with his sharp exhale when he eased himself in at last with slow and careful movements.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, once he was seated all the way inside, “fuck, you feel so good.”

“Worth the wait?” she teased, wrapping her legs around his hips to hold him there so that she was deliciously full again. Gluttony was supposed to be a deadly sin, and here she was greedily enjoying her second lover of the night without a hint of guilt.

“Definitely worth the wait.”

Frankie leaned down to nuzzle his nose against hers, pressed a sweet kiss to her lips, and started to move in slow, deep rolls. Despite the wait and how close he’d been already, it was clear that he intended to take his time. A hand ran along the outside of her thigh and under her hip to lift and position her so he could slide in that final little bit and now there was no space left between them.

Frankie held himself there, buried so deep with his forehead resting on hers while she ran her hands up the broad expanse of his bare back.

When he started to move again she gripped his shoulders, holding on as he started to build her up again. It wasn’t as frantic as it had been with Javier but it was equally as good, Frankie grinding deep on each stroke before pulling back again and stealing more kisses, a benefit of being face-to-face. She buried her fingers in the damp curls at the nape of his neck with the weight of his body blanketing hers while he never stopped thrusting. It was a hot, heavy drag that made her toes curl and fanned the fire under her skin licking at every last inch, but none more than where she and Frankie were joined.

He nipped at the underside of her jaw and buried his face in her neck with a groan as he continued to fuck her and she saw Javier watching them from over Frankie’s shoulder, still naked, not having bothered to put his clothes back on yet. She could still feel the echo of him even with Frankie inside of her now, it somehow amplified the sensation and she arched up into it with a bitten-off moan while their gazes stayed locked on one another. When it had been Javier’s turn she’d been facing Frankie, looking at him as Javier thrust into her from behind, and now that it was the other way around she couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away from the searing heat in that gaze as dark as midnight.

“You were right,” Javier said in a slow drawl that betrayed a hint of his Texas roots, looking at her but talking to Frankie, “she’s gorgeous when she’s getting fucked.”

Frankie didn’t answer him directly, he just pressed a kiss under her ear and whispered into it, “Let’s put on a show for him he won’t forget.”

He went up on his knees then, dragging her up his strong thighs so that she was spread wide with her legs draped over his elbows. On full display again for both men, her breasts bounced with each of Frankie’s powerful thrusts, so deep that it took what was left of her breath away. It wasn’t much. She could hardly make any noise now, holding on to the blanket for dear life while Frankie let out rough groans with each stroke. The angle was the exact opposite from the one Javier had fucked her at and yet both of them hitting that perfect spot.

“One more,” Frankie bit out, clearly hanging on by a thread. “Give us one more, baby, please. Squeeze me.”

His thumb found her clit as he stilled long enough to rub it, swollen and hot and only needing the barest touch before she was there, squeezing him tight as she came again. Frankie cried out as she practically strangled his cock, helpless to stop herself, not that she wanted to when it made him sound like that. He held her steady throughout with only the barest tremble in the hands gripping her hips, holding out as long as he could before he fucked back into her still quivering depths as he frantically chased his own release. He came a handful of thrusts later with a shout, his whole body shaking, tipping forward and catching himself on his arms at the last moment so he wouldn’t crush her before resting his head on her breasts with a sigh. They lay like that, his long legs tangled with hers on the cot, sweaty and sated and a part of her wondered how she’d ever go back to not having this.

Was it still considered a one night stand when there were two men?

A hand brushed her tangled hair back from her brow and it wasn’t Frankie’s. Her eyes had drifted shut and she opened them to see Javier, looking down with a faint smile. A rare thing, from him. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to her forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back.

“That was-“ Frankie mumbled, face still pressed to her chest and muffling his words, “-damn.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, running her fingers through Frankie’s hair while looking up at Javier, wondering if he felt the same. His lips quirked up again at the unspoken question and he nodded.

“Very eloquent, Morales,” was what he actually said, dry as a desert.

Frankie lifted a hand enough to give him the finger before curling it possessively under her side and she shook with silent laughter.

Men.

***********

She hovered on the edge of sleep, never quite falling over it. Even the unexpected bout of marathon sex with not one, but two men, wasn’t enough to fully knock her out. Another parting gift from undercover work, it was difficult to fall asleep.

You were the most vulnerable when you slept.

Frankie and Javier must have thought she’d drifted off, she could hear them talking to each other in low, careful voices, clearly trying to keep it down so as not to wake her up.

“I don’t know how it works in the DEA, but I’m guessing it’s not too different from the military and if this gets out every other jackass in the agency is going to think she’s fair game. They’ll have a much worse nickname for her than Cariño, tell me I’m wrong, Peña.”

Javier answered him in a clipped tone. “You’re not.”

“So you’re going to keep your mouth shut then.”

“What, you think I was going to go back to the office tomorrow and brag to everyone about it? Just how big of an asshole do you think I am, Morales?”

There was a long, pointed moment of silence and she could picture the looks they were undoubtedly giving each other, Javier with that heavy scowl that he wore more often than those ridiculously tight jeans and Frankie with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering under his baseball cap.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Frankie finally said.

“I’m not-“ Javier started, his voice rising in annoyance. Frankie shushed him and he shut up, then she heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter sparking to life and imagined Javier was smothering the urge to argue with a cigarette.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he stage-whispered. “There, satisfied? Want me to pinky swear? Cross my heart and hope to die?”

Maybe the urge wasn’t smothered out completely.

Frankie didn’t take the bait. “Just as long as we’re on the same page.”

“We are.”

There was silence again for a while after that, but at least the animosity in the air seemed to have faded somewhat.

It was Javier who spoke again next, without any vitriol or sarcasm, just matter of fact as he quietly said, “The rain stopped hours ago.”

Did it? She couldn’t remember exactly when it had stopped pounding against the roof, was it while Frankie had his head between her legs or when Javier was sliding into her from behind?

“Yeah, I know. But the ground needed to dry out enough to get the speed necessary for takeoff, unless you wanted to crash into a tree.”

Javier didn’t argue with Frankie this time. “It’s your call. You’re the pilot, Captain.”

“Glad we finally agree on that, Agent. I’ll go check, we may be good to go now. Back to civilization.”

There was the rustle of movement, the sound of footsteps, and when Frankie’s voice came again it was from further away.

“Oh, and Peña? Just so you know I’m giving her my number when we land.”

“You can do whatever you want, Morales. I’m not going to try to stop you.”

She noticed that he didn’t say the same. Javier Peña wasn’t the type to turn a one night stand into anything more.

It was quiet again as Frankie presumably went outside to see if they could finally leave the little safe house that now held another secret within the ramshackle walls. But would it stay a secret? Frankie was right, if this got out at the DEA then the years of work she’d put in wouldn’t matter, she’d forever be the agent who’d let two men fuck her on an op. The whispers that already followed her around would turn into something far uglier and she’d go from sweetheart to slut in a heartbeat. It should concern her, Javier choosing her for the raid had already raised a few eyebrows and set tongues wagging among the “insecure dicks”, as Frankie would say. But despite Javier’s reputation at the office for sleeping with anything in a skirt, she believed him when he said he wasn’t going to spread it around. It might be foolish and naive of her, both traits that never lasted long in undercover work and she would have said she’d lost forever.

Maybe she wasn’t that far gone, yet.

If they were going to leave soon then she should get up, find her boots, try to turn her bedhead back into something respectable and figure out what the hell to say to the two men with whom she’d just spent the night.

She did none of those things.

Javier muttered something under his breath, too low for her to make out. Probably something rude about Frankie. She sensed more than heard him come closer, and a moment later the blanket that had fallen to her waist was pulled back up into place.

She smiled unseen against her makeshift pillow—Frankie’s discarded tactical vest—at the gesture. You couldn’t do this job and not be a dick, or a bitch, if you were a woman, but it wasn’t all you had to be.

Even for Javier Peña.

[gravedigg]

Six Song Soundtrack Playlist

Tagged by @ferindencadash (thank you!!)

I'm filling this out for Angel, I'll write up a little list of explanations for each and link his playlist below <3

1. An event that defines your character's past

Bad luck never leaves Your jinx just floats around Like the taste inside your mouth Or the sound when your skull cracks Feel the growing pains It means you're growing up too fast While you were sleeping I was blood red Sharp as a knife inside your stomach I'm squeezing tight, don't let the light in No medicine Daydream tendencies had you smiling soft and sweet Keep those blurry memories somewhere safe You may need them You can make a wish But there's no rabbit out the hat Realize it's never coming back Realize it's never coming back

2. How your character sees themselves

Waiting for the train In the dead of night I howl We all have our evils We're told just to keep calm Curled up and feeble Plagued by our brains, the internal sinking pain I wish I was equal, if only that simple I wish I was people (I WISH!) The train it now arrives, I plead just take me home

3. How others view them

Driving faster in my car Falling farther from just what we are Smoke a cigarette and lie some more These conversations kill Falling faster in my car

4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic)

Well, prove to me I'm not gonna die alone Unstitch that shit I've sewn To close up the hole that tore through my skin Well, my trust in you is a dog with a broken leg Tendons too torn to beg for you to let me back in You said, "I can't prove to you you're not gonna die alone But trust me to take you home To clean up that blood all over your paws

5. A major fight scene

As it fell on Job's eyes, this water of doubt, he said, "I'm wading in lies, it's wearing me out. But if you want it, all right. I'll buy it." Blood too dirty for mosquitos, I hope that you die soon. Pray to any god you believe in. Those people, they had families. Their families don't have them. You're not any god I believe in. I hope the rain ruins the work you did.

6. End credits song

It's okay, I don't even cry all I think about is a memory and the dream when you kissed my arm as I look away, don't hear what I say That maybe when I die, I'll get to be a car driving in the night lighting up the dark. something in your voice it sparks a little hope I'll wait up for that noise your voice become my home

All of these are from Angel's playlist which is organized as a timeline of his life, from his childhood in foster care, to enlisting in the army at 18, serving in the Gulf War and losing his leg, to the ensuing depression while he recovers and relearns how to walk, to his lengthy bender of sex & drugs when he moves to the city and finds out about gay bars, to him trying desperately to pull some semblance of a life together with what scraps of himself he has left.

As a bit of a guide;

An event that defines your character's past

This ones in reference to Angel's injury while serving in the army, an explosion tearing through his leg and shrapnel ripping up his shoulder and face. He spent a good amount of time bouncing between hospitals, from field hospitals to Germany and back state-side, and had to come to terms with the reality and severity of his injury.

2. How your character sees themselves

I think in many ways its always been this way, but it definitely worsened after being disfigured; Angel has always seen himself as less of a person and more of a monster, which is why he's always felt a sort of kinship with the Monster in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I think its a potent cocktail of autism, self esteem issues, and the endless, clinging isolation of growing up in the foster system.

3. How others view them

I think from an outside view Angel comes off as really mysterious and cool, he's very serious and quiet and drives a motorcycle. But in reality hes just autistic and terribly uncomfortable and would rather be at home.

4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic)

It takes so much patience and soft love to get Angel to unravel his layers and layers of bottled up shame and pain and desperation. He learned from a young age that to survive he needed to keep as much of himself hidden as he could, and he's clung to that sentiment his entire life. He struggles so much expressing when hes suffering and asking for help, will keep things bottled up even when he knows hes sabotaging himself.

5. A major fight scene

This one's the climax point of his experience with war, having whatever faith he clung to shaken hard when he saw sheer cruelty and mindless violence of it all.

6. End credits song

This is the last song on his playlist, to me it symbolizes this feeling of hope for a future that's really new for Angel, he's spent so long trying to just get through each day. Having someone by his side that he can dream of a future with is more than he could have ever asked for.

Also im tagging @nullshocked, make this for Jules pls.

And if you're reading this, you should do one for your oc :-)

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter X

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.2K

21 Melona

The picture frame was heavier than Kazi originally planned. Arms trembling from her awkward grip, she managed to connect the hook to the nail and secure the frame to the wall. 

With a satisfied breath, she retreated a meter to assess the picture’s balance. Her triumphant smirk slid into a rictus. The right side of the black frame was tilted higher. Much higher.

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself. 

A beep from her comm drew her away from the unbalanced frame. The number was familiar. Her heart stuttered. 

“Lucien,” she answered tightly.

“Ms. Lucien,” the voice chirped. “This is Licae Thurmin with Eluca’s Adoption Center for Young Girls and Boys. I have a recent update on Neyti Lucien’s application.”

Kazi chewed the inside of her cheek, scanning her surroundings for any listening ears. 

She was alone. The men outside, Daria in her garden, and Neyti upstairs. 

“What’s the update?”

“The application you submitted has been processed and accepted,” Licae Thurmin said. “I want to remind you that a live application does not guarantee immediate adoption—”

The kind woman’s voice quieted as Kazi stared blankly at the room. 

White walls housed three new paintings, the colors smudged and blotchy, common for a six-year-old artist. The refrigerator displayed a handful of sketches. On the kitchen table, a small collection of bird feathers Nova had gifted Neyti a few weeks ago rested. Beside the collection was an unfinished drawing of the feathers. 

Formerly barren and devoid of personal touches—other than Daria’s succulents and Kazi’s dragon on the bookcase—the living area and kitchen now spoke of life. The existence of a family—

“I understand,” Kazi said once Licae Thurmin stopped speaking. 

For a fleeting moment she hesitated. Considered revoking the application. Or asking for a deferral. The adoption center was Elucan and had no connection, at the moment, to the Empire. One of the reasons she went through this center and not another. To protect Neyti from the Empire’s eyes. So, revoking Neyti’s application wouldn’t raise Imperial suspicion. 

However, it was silly—a frivolous desperation to cling to a new normal—and she knew better. 

Instead, she said, “I’ll await further updates.”

The comm went silent and Kazi pocketed it, eyeing the lopsided frame next to the holoscreen. A hammer and nails scattered the floor. The measuring tape lay limply on the table. 

What the hell was she doing?

Closing her eyes, she ran her hands through her unbraided hair, massaging her temples. She was stupid. So fucking stupid. 

After all these years she had perfected the mirage of closeness. Of companionship, so that others felt appreciated and needed. It was all an illusion. An illusion that allowed her to maintain distance to protect herself. 

And yet, sometime in the last three months, she had formed a semblance of a bond with Neyti. A bond so small and fragile it could easily be snipped. But it still existed. 

The tightness in her chest, the empty disappointment in her bones, were proof an attachment was forming. 

Three goals. She had outlined three goals upon her move to Eluca, and one of them was Neyti’s adoption. The application’s process and submission shouldn’t have surprised her. She had no right to be upset. 

“You are aware that picture is crooked.”

The voice startled her from her thoughts and she dropped her hands to her sides. How a man so large could move around so silently was beyond her. Cheeks flushing, she frowned at Wolffe.

“Thank you for that illuminating observation.” Wolffe threw her a bland look and she sniffed her exasperation, muttering, “I was just about to fix it.”

Sweat sheened on his face and matted the white shirt he wore. Sleeves rolled to his elbows revealed the black ink darkening his left forearm. Piqued interest encouraged Kazi to analyze the tattoo closer, but she fought the urge, instead, lifting her gaze to his. 

He was already staring at her. Rather, he was scanning her neck. It started, she assumed, the morning after their conversation beside the lake. His assessment was subtle, and she didn’t notice it until a week later. Now, it was obvious. And even though it had been a month since the incident, he didn’t appear content to stop.

A small piece of her appreciated his analysis—appreciated the thought of someone caring about her. A greater piece of her disliked the attention and the confusing emotions it brought forth. Life was easier and simpler when their lives remained separate and uninvolved.

Stepping toward the wall, subsequently creating distance, Kazi unhooked the picture frame. From the corner of her eye, Wolffe retrieved the tape measurer and the stylus. She held out her hand for both items. He blinked at her outstretched hand, levelled an unimpressed look in her direction, and then stepped toward the wall.

Kazi straightened. “I was going to do that.”

“I know.” 

Stylus between his teeth and the old nail removed, he measured the distance from the floor to a spot on the wall. Kazi folded her arms.

“I can do it—”

“I know.” Wolffe penciled a small dot and dropped the tape measurer. He extended his hand to her and she rolled her eyes, handing him the hammer. “Did you present the intel?” 

A frisson of unease twisted in her stomach. “I did.”

His silence, as he hammered the nail into the wall, demanded further explanation. 

Kazi glanced out the window that overlooked Daria’s garden. A neatly-twined hat kept the sun off her sister’s face, but it was the obvious trembling in Daria’s hand as she snipped dead leaves from her plants that caught her attention. 

“The magistrate was impressed,” she said to Wolffe. “But he didn’t elaborate on my findings. I still don’t know why he’s interested in this.”

Wolffe set aside the hammer and hefted the picture frame. Annoyingly, he didn’t struggle with its awkward size or its heaviness. 

“You’re sure the outpost is abandoned?” she asked.

“I’ve told you”—he grunted and hefted the frame higher—“it’s been cleared for months.”

Nearly five weeks ago, Kazi noticed a nearly imperceptible pattern in her data analysis for the magistrate. A pattern concerning deserted clones. 

Most of the clones Wolffe and his men rescued relied on secure comm channels. However, there were a handful of desperate ones. Those who needed a quick extraction and couldn’t wait for a secure channel. And even though they spoke in code, their transmission could be located. 

Hence the pattern: Before a clone deserted, Eluca or Coruscant received a long-range transmission. Days later, the deserted clone disappeared. 

Luckily, the pattern had occurred only three times—twice to Coruscant and once to Eluca. But, Kazi feared if she noticed the pattern, someone else might, too. It could lead to an Imperial investigation. So, she decided the best solution was to manipulate the data to a different location. 

The outpost was a secret, former Republic station located on a hyperlane route within Veridian Sector. It stored rations and additional weapons and was used primarily by commando units who needed a hideout in the midst of a mission. According to Cody, who offered the outpost’s location, it was abandoned a few months before the war’s conclusion. After a Separatist ship located it.

Seemingly forgotten by the Empire, Wolffe and his brothers had stripped the outpost of its goods. And now that it was emptied of provisions, the men claimed it no longer served a necessary purpose to their missions. 

The solution was simple. All transmissions between deserted troopers and the men would appear connected to the outpost rather than Eluca. Thanks to the outpost’s long-range communication tower.

Wolffe stepped away from the wall. “I want to know: What will happen to you when the magistrate realizes the outpost is abandoned?”

The question was a point of contention the last two weeks. Wolffe thought it too risky to provide an abandoned location, arguing the magistrate was too impulsive and it could threaten Kazi. She argued the need to deliver intel and keep the magistrate satisfied outweighed a possible reaction. 

“I think it’s still crooked,” she said, changing the conversation.

Jerking his gaze to the frame, Wolffe scowled. “It’s not.”

“Huh.” Placing the tools in the tool box, she shot him an awkward grimace. “Thank you. For helping. Even though I didn’t ask you to.”

With a roll of his eyes, Wolffe crossed his arms over his chest. He watched her, and when she was finished, he cleared his throat. “I keep expecting you to return with new bruises.”

A current of tension tightened her skin and she rubbed a spot on her arm. A month had passed since her interaction with Magistrate Aro, and yet she still woke some nights from a phantom pain in her neck. Her sheets dampened by sweat. Her heart racing erratically. A shout of terror built in her throat. It took a long time for her to return to a fitful sleep.

Most of the time, she avoided thoughts regarding that day, and she diverted conversation whenever it seemed Wolffe might reintroduce the issue. Especially in the past few weeks when discussing an intentional mislead through the outpost.  

“I don’t know why you would expect that—”

“What will happen to Neyti? To your sister? Have you thought about them?” Wolffe exhaled sharply. “Lying to the magistrate is needlessly dangerous.”

“It’s not.” Irritation heated her blood and she folded her arms across her chest. He knew she only ever thought about Neyti and Daria—that they were her first concerns in everything. “You know I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary.”

“And what happens if you die?” He took a step toward her. “You’ll leave my brothers and I with a kid—”

“If that’s your concern”—she lifted her chin, glaring—“let me reassure you. There’s an adoption center in the capital—”

“Do you really think so little of us?” His tone was harsh. His eyes were narrowed in indignation. “Of me?”

Time spent with the men the past month had convinced her of their honorable character. They wouldn’t abandon Neyti, and they wouldn’t abandon Daria. Kazi knew this to be true. But she had also learned an important lesson over the years: relying on another was a direct path to abandonment and hurt. 

The optimistic side of her that believed in morals and ethics and justice yearned to trust Wolffe. The realistic side of her, the side that endured too much and yearned to protect, couldn’t relinquish control. 

At her continued hesitation, Wolffe huffed a wry chuckle.

“I told you,” he said curtly, “if a problem arises, we will protect you—”

She shook her head. “That’s not your job.” 

“You’re fucking aggravating, you know that?”

“Me?” Her eyes widened. “Have you met yourself?”

Wolffe scoffed. “You’re closed off and guarded. Too independent to ask for help. You’re stubborn and self-righteous, and it’s fucking aggravating.”

“You’re guarded, too.” A scornful smirk twisted her mouth. “You carry responsibility like you’re the only one who can. You’re reserved and apathetic, and borderline overbearing.” 

Rolling his eyes, Wolffe opened his mouth but he was cut off by the approach of padded footsteps. A pair of bunny slippers rounded the corner. 

Dressed in a green dress, Neyti wandered toward Kazi and Wolffe. She frowned at the recently hung picture frame.

“It was Mr. Wolffe’s idea,” Kazi said quickly. Wolffe levelled a disapproving scowl in her direction but she ignored him. “What do you think?”

Tilting her head to the side, Neyti scrutinized the frame.

Kazi followed her line of sight. “It’s crooked, isn’t it?”

Wolffe sighed. 

Tiny hands wringing together, Neyti didn’t react to the comment. Hesitation hunched her shoulders and distress worried the line between her eyebrows. 

Kazi shared a disconcerted look with Wolffe. The man eyed the little girl, his gaze intense and assessing. 

“Neyti?” Kazi searched the youngling’s face. “Is everything okay?”

Gray eyes, wide and timid, bounced between Wolffe and Kazi. Understanding the girl’s unspoken discomfort, Wolffe excused himself, making his way through the sunroom and out the backdoor. 

“Did something happen?” Kazi hedged.

Dark thoughts spun in her mind, like a spider spooling its web, and she considered the past week in its entirety. The only disruption was the men’s last mission. The three deserted clones they rescued had left yesterday. 

Uncertainty stalled her heart and she glanced toward the sunroom’s windows. If something had happened to Neyti—

Blinking rapidly, Neyti reached for her hand. Neyti’s throat bobbed and Kazi squeezed her fingers. Gently, softly.

Neyti tugged on her hand and led her to the stairs. Nonplussed, Kazi followed Neyti up the staircase. Her bewilderment increased when they wandered down the short hall and found themselves in Daria’s bedroom.

Pale pink curtains lined the windows that overlooked the backyard. Sunlight dappled the carpeted floor. The room was fresh and inviting, except for the clothing items littering the bed like unwanted paint splats. Kazi pursed her lips at her sister’s lack of basic cleanliness. 

Daria was always put together, and yet she couldn’t make her bed in the mornings. The contradictions in her personality never failed to irk her.

A white dresser housed a dozen succulents, the plants ranging from prickly cacti to flowery geometrics. Opened and recently written in, a notebook sat on the desk. Penned in superfluous script was the day’s date.

Kazi had half a mind to read her sister’s diary. If Daria refused to respect her personal space, willingly sharing her adventure book with Neyti, then the same rules applied to her. Maybe she would finally understand her sister’s thought process. Then again, she would probably read diatribes concerning her actions and complaints concerning her perpetual singleness.

Neyti dropped her hand and wandered into Daria’s ‘fresher. Kazi followed, watching as Neyti extracted one of Daria’s morning/evening potions. Liquid an iridescent blue, the potion shimmered beneath the fractured sunlight. An empty bottle from this morning sat behind the faucet. 

With an abashed grimace, Neyti mimed draining the potion in the sink. Kazi’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Neyti repeated the gesture. 

Realization dawned on Kazi, slow and creeping, like the sun rising on the horizon, and with it, the world around her quieted. 

Slowly, she peered into the black basin, running a finger along the bottom. She withdrew her hand, praying Neyti was wrong. 

A blue tint coated her finger pad.

Her breathing sharpened. Her throat dried.

She thought she might be sick.

Months of unexplained symptoms, months of unusual episodes suddenly made sense. 

A dull roaring filled her head. She turned on her heel. 

The descent down the stairs passed in a haze.

In the kitchen, Daria was washing the gathered herbs and vegetables from her garden. Her dress fell to her knees, light and airy. The white spoke of innocence. A quiet tune sounded from the radio. Daria noticed her and she started to smile.

Hand shaking, Kazi raised the empty bottle.

“You haven’t been taking your medicine.”

The statement was muffled by the ringing in her ears and Kazi took a deep breath, focusing on the kitchen. Focusing on her open-mouthed, stunned sister.

“What the fuck is your problem?” She hissed the words in a spit of vitriol so pure Daria stumbled back a step. “What the fuck? What the actual fuck?”

Flustered, Daria turned off the sink and patted her hands on a towel. A slight twitch in her eye belied the casual blasé she was trying to exude. “It’s none of your business, Kazi.”

“Like hell it isn’t—” 

“It’s not!” 

Shocked by her sister’s sudden change in demeanor, Kazi stiffened.

Daria glared at her. “What I do and do not do with my healer’s recommendations is not up for your judgment and criticism—”

“It fucking is!” Kazi snarled. “It’s all up to my fucking judgment because I’m the one who’s wasted money and time trying to ease your pain and prolong your fucking life!” 

Kazi slammed the empty bottle into the kitchen sink. The clatter of breaking glass further incensed her.

“Months of paying Healer Natasha to help you with your symptoms”—she fisted her hands at her sides—“and you haven’t been taking your fucking medicine. What the fuck is your problem?”

Rage, roiling like the sea in the midst of a hurricane, churned within her body. It dominated her thoughts, dominated the tautness in her muscles and the tightness in her lungs. 

After her father died, Kazi taught herself to control her emotions. Primarily her anger. Formerly quick-tempered, young Kazi could work herself into a conniption of such rage she would cry. 

Anger was her least favorite emotion. When she experienced it, she felt unbalanced, and her façade of perfect composure and unaffected apathy splintered beneath the emotion.

Her mother exploited her defensive anger. She used it to ridicule and humiliate her. To force her to obey. 

So young Kazi learned to shut down. The moment she felt her emotions rising, circling outside her control, she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and told herself over and over that she didn’t care. 

She numbed herself to her mother’s scorn. Numbed herself to feeling.

Years of training herself to dominate her emotions rather than accept or acknowledge them created her cool, aloof personality. It was her shield against a world of change that constantly felt out of her control. 

And so this rage—receding and crashing inside her—unnerved her. 

The lack of control frightened her. But she didn’t care. 

She couldn’t care because her sister—the person she had pooled money, time, and effort into helping—decided to forego her daily medicine. Medicine designed to ease her suffering. Lessen the severity of her symptoms. Offer her more time to retain her mental sanity. 

“You have no right to be upset with me.” Daria glowered. “You don’t care what happens to me—you don’t care that this illness is killing me. You haven’t cared about me, or anything else, for that matter, in years.”

Kazi hardly processed the words. 

The roaring in her head was too loud and her thoughts too distorted by this revelation. 

She didn’t care about the hurt in Daria’s tone, and she didn’t care about Daria’s accusation. Especially since her sister’s accusation was partially true. She hadn’t cared about anyone or anything in a long time. 

There was a reason for that.

“It seems I’ve given you too much free reign,” Kazi said tightly.

Swallowing her anger, forcing it down and locking it away, she took a deep breath. 

Numbness returned and, with it, clarity. 

“It’s clear you’re a danger to yourself.” She stared at Daria, unfeeling. Flippant. “You don’t care about your health or trying to prolong your life. And since you’ve shown a lack of concern and maturity, I think the best option would be hospitalization.” 

Dismay widened Daria’s eyes and she retreated to the far counter. Her mouth opened and closed. The tremble in her lower lip worsened. 

When the silence lengthened between them, tight as a wound harpoon, Daria lifted her chin. “How could you do this to me?”

“You’re doing this to yourself.” Kazi chuckled, the noise acerbic and unrepentant. “Your lack of propriety to take care of your own health—”

“I’m your sister and you’re threatening me because I refused to take a dumb potion—” 

“The medicine is supposed to help—”

“The medicine takes them away!”

The brokenness in Daria’s voice forced Kazi to pause. 

Confused, she could only frown. “What?”

“It takes them away.” Daria pressed a hand to her mouth and choked. “Mama and Papa. I can’t see them when I take the medicine.”

Time stood still for a moment as Kazi considered her sister’s bewildering statement. 

And then it hit her.

The moments she noticed Daria staring off into space, smiling at nothing.

Hallucinations. Her sister was hallucinating their parents.

“When I see them,” Daria murmured, “I don’t feel so lonely.” 

Her sister’s gaze was deadened, lacking the vibrancy Kazi used to envy when they were younglings. A gaze so full of life and joy. Eager to explore, intrigued by stories. Loving.

“I miss them, Kazi,” Daria whispered hoarsely. 

Gritting her teeth, Kazi exhaled a slow breath. 

“It’s harder to remember them,” Daria said. “I can’t remember what they look like.” 

Daria stood before her pale and sick-looking, once-fresh features drawn and weary. The fullness of her cheeks had hollowed; even the plump pink of her lips were dull.

“I’m scared.” The words were defeated. Daria raised a shaky hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear. “I’m losing more of myself every day. I’m scared of forgetting everything, and the medicine only makes it worse. I don’t want to lose Mama and Papa. I don’t want to be alone.”

The fear in Daria’s voice, the unspoken plea, rendered Kazi speechless. Her sister—the woman she had loved more than anyone else in the galaxy—wasn’t preserving her life out of fear of being alone. As if companionship through hallucinations meant something.

It was selfish. Daria would die sometime in the near future and she would leave Kazi. Her sister didn’t understand the meaning of loneliness. 

Her sister didn’t understand the fear of being alone.

“Every morning I will watch you take your medicine,” Kazi said coldly. “And every night I will watch you drink that damned potion. Got it?”

Visible shock tightened Daria’s features and then darkened into hate. “I’m not a child for you to hover over.”

“It’s quite obvious that you are.”

“You’re being unreasonable.” Daria corrected a wrinkle in her dress. “If you want to mother someone maybe you should start with the actual child in this house. Neyti lacks any sort of emotional care because you’re so unfeeling it’s borderline monstrous.” 

Kazi flinched at the harshness of the words. 

“What do you want me to do?” she demanded. “I am trying. I am trying to do what is best for this family, but you don’t care. Nothing I do is ever good enough for you. And now you mention Neyti?” 

Resentment bittered her mind and she laughed ruefully.  

“What do you want me to do with her? Give her away?” She threw up her hands. “Maybe I should because I don’t fucking know what else to do! I didn’t ask for this, Daria. I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be responsible for either of you—”

A broken sob cut through her rant and Kazi froze. 

No.

No.

Kazi looked over her shoulder, to the little girl who was cowering on the stairs. The little girl who had been here this entire time, forgotten. 

Horrified, Kazi took a tentative step toward her. “Neyti—”

Neyti sprinted away. Up the stairs. 

Kazi stared at the abandoned space. 

Her lungs squeezed. Her stomach felt empty. Her blood ran cold.  

A numb sensation, cold and unfeeling, pooled in her toes and slowly rose. It entombed her body.

She’d fucked up. 

She’d fucked up even worse than forgetting the field trip. 

A brittle laugh drew her attention and she turned her gaze on her sister. To the sister who was staring at her like she truly was a monster. 

“Mother was always right about you.” Daria laughed again. The sound as broken as Neyti’s sob. “You’re too emotionless to care about anyone but yourself.”

The words repeated over and over as she climbed the stairs.

If only Daria knew how little she cared about herself. 

If only her little sister knew the depth of her self-hatred. 

If only her sister knew she brushed aside emotions because they were nothing but a liability. 

Kazi knocked on Neyti’s cracked-open door. 

The silence that followed was deliberate. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Over the years she promised herself she would never be like her mother. Critical comments, judgmental stares, constant disapproval. She promised she would always be better.

She should have known she would fall short. She should have known she would fail, and she would hurt those around her.

“I’m so sorry, Neyti. What I said”—her voice cracked and she gulped—“was wrong. I spoke out of anger and I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I’m so sorry.”

Unwavering silence resounded from the room.

Sliding to the floor, Kazi pressed her forehead against the door. “I made a promise to your mother.” 

The memory was stark in her mind.

Chaotic streets darkened by night.

Screams of terror. Children’s sobs.

A woman and daughter fleeing.

The crack of a blaster.

A child, bleeding and crying, shoved into her arms.

“I promised your mother that I would protect you,” Kazi said hoarsely. “I promised her that I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. To give you a chance at a new life.” 

Vision blurring, she rubbed at her wettened cheeks.

“I’m going to give you that new life,” she whispered. The adoption application was finalized and the search for real parents could finally start—the search for a home where Neyti would never hurt again. “I promise.”

The door squeaked open a smidge. 

Sitting on the opposite side, her cheek pressed to her knees and tears in her eyes, Neyti played with the ear of a bunny. 

“I want to go home.” 

The words were soft and quiet, and Neyti speaking for the first time—those five specific words—flooded Kazi with shame.  

All she could do was nod. In understanding. In regret. 

Because Neyti knew they couldn’t return home. There was nothing left. 

For either of them.

Masterlist | Chapter 9 | Chapter 11

A/N: I know it’s probably frustrating to see Kazi constantly keep up her walls and not entirely trust Wolffe. My writing has always been a way to deal with real-life emotions in realistic ways. A woman who’s struggled a majority of her life with trust issues immediately trusting the love interest because he’s a nice guy is the most unrealistic and annoying thing for me to read in novels and fics. Kazi’s trust issues are a main part of this story, and they will not be going away any time soon.

[outerspacebisexual]

Wishful Thinking, Mindless Dreaming - Steve Harrington

summary: You left Hawkins and all your relationships behind. Five years later, you can barely look at yourself, and at the one person who you never should have left.

pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: angst, some fluff, minimal swearing, hopeful ending

a/n: i'm back for the first time in months. sorry for not writing, but i'm feeling a bit better and thought it's about time to put a couple of words on the page.

masterlist

Maybe it was the morning rush of traffic—the idle hum of wasted fuel as they came to a stand still on the main street—that made you feel normal again.

It was familiar. A sound that pulled a chord deep within your soul, suddenly rewinding the past five years of anguish and anomie until you were nothing more than a young, dumb, high school student wandering the main street with your friends.

Window shopping with music you could almost hear and the sickly-sweet smell of pastries from the bakery wafting by on a lone autumn breeze. Eyeing off a new jacket that you knew you couldn’t afford, but your friends egging you to try on, to which you always conceded with a bashful smile as the material settled on your shoulders like it was made for you.

Even now, the jacket still fit, seeming to have molded better than you to the changes from your teenage years to early adulthood.

Some of the shop fronts on either side of the street were still empty, their previous tenants unable to rebuild after the ‘earthquake’, but most were showing new life, the power of hope and resilience pushing them on like a lone flower growing on the sidewalk.

Hawkins hadn’t changed all that much since the last time you had been there, and yet, nothing was the same.

It didn’t feel like home anymore, and you didn’t think it ever would again. Not after the way you left. Not after you let it all go on a whim.

You weren’t even sure why you were back. The excuse of your aunt’s birthday was just that—an excuse. There had been many raised eyebrows and hushed whispers when you’d shown up that morning, going back on your promise to never step foot in the town again.

You’d ignored them, clinging to your glass and any semblance of control with an iron grip as you stood in the corner of the room by yourself, no one having the nerve to side up to you and start a conversation, lest you decided to rip their head off.

An ugly scar on the relationships you’d torn apart when you shredded all contact with your past life.

The longer you stood in that stuffy room, the closer the walls drew in, until finally the laughter and music became too loud, too forced, too much, and you slammed the glass down on the nearest surface and fled.

Just like you always did.

Now, the breeze was colder than you remembered, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not as it worked to cool your heated cheeks and the sweat on the back of your neck.

Each footstep on the sidewalk took you further away from the mess of your life and closer to the café at the end of the main street.

It was a mistake to come back, you told yourself, head ducked low to avoid the eyes of passers-by. It was a mistake to think that anyone would welcome you back with open arms. It was a mistake to come back and see the life here flourish while you were withering away to nothing.

The thoughts grew more ferocious the closer you got to the café, a whirlwind storm inside your mind so loud that you didn’t even hear the bells chime until you came face to face with the open door.

And face to face with him.

You blinked.

Once. Then twice. And on the third time, every thought you’d had a moment ago descended into an ear-piercing silence.

Your breath hitched, and he seemed just as dumbfounded to see you standing on the precipice of your old life as you were.

He whispered your name, and everything around you came back in screaming colour.

‘Steve,’ you choked out, barely able to think anything else, because he was here. He was in front of you.

He swallowed down his shock into something more approachable, but his eyebrows were still pulled together as he took you in.

You wanted to turn your head and shield him from seeing you like this. He had no doubt noticed the bags under your eyes that seemed like a permanent fixture in your life now. Your frown lines that were etched into your face from the sheer amount of time you spent like that. And worst of all, your glassy eyes that had misted the second you laid eyes on him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he managed after a second.

You fumbled for the reason, the words tumbling around like rocks in your mouth. ‘I—uh—there’s a party. For my aunt. Now.’

‘Oh,’ he said suddenly, and as if realising that he was still in the middle of the doorway, stepped aside and moved to open the door wider for you. ‘Are you wanting to come in?’

‘No. No. I’m just…’ The sentence wavered out into nothing. What were you doing? What had been your plan aside from coming here to seek refuge?

You could feel Steve’s eyes still on you, and you pulled your jacket tighter. It was out of comfort more than anything, but he took it as a defence against the chill.

He cleared his throat and glanced back inside. You could see him vaulting a thought around behind his eyes, trying to work up the courage to ask the question that you desperately hoped he would. ‘Did you want to get a coffee?’ Together, he didn’t say.

Your answer was instant.

+

The light streaming through the partially closed curtains roused you from sleep. From the way it poured into the room, it had to be mid-morning, the overhead fan already working overtime to fight against the unusually hot spring heat.

You groaned as you blinked the sleep from your eyes, but quietened immediately when the arm slung over you pulled tighter. He was warm, the thin t-shirt barely doing anything to stop the natural warmth he radiated at all times.

It became particularly useful for you in winter, but on hot days like this, it was almost too much.

‘Steve,’ you whispered, trying to pull away from him. His grip didn’t let up. ‘Steve,’ you tried again, this time rolling over to face him.

His hair was a mess, the majority of it falling in a wayward pattern all over his face. It was longer than it ever had been while he’d been at high school, and you had to admit that you liked being able to brush your hands through it, just like you did now.

‘Steve,’ you murmured, twirling your fingers through the strands around his temple. He hummed, an acknowledgement without actually opening his eyes. ‘It’s your birthday, baby.’

While the information wasn’t new to him, he still furrowed his eyebrows and heaved in a long breath through his nose before cracking his eyes open. ‘What?’

You smiled at him. ‘It’s your birthday.’

‘My birthday?’ he questioned, and if it weren’t for the fact that you knew he struggled to process anything for the first ten minutes he was awake, you’d have thought he suffered short-term memory loss while he was asleep.

‘Yeah,’ you affirmed. ‘Happy birthday.’

There was a long moment of silence as he finally understood what you said and his eyes opened fully, revealing the deep chocolate that you’d fallen for, and would continue to chase for the rest of your life.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, and after a second added, ‘I’m so old.’

You scoffed, shuffling as he rolled onto his back. ‘You’re not old. You’re barely 19.’

‘And that’s practically 20, which is almost 21. I’ll be 30 before I know it.’ He caught your eyeroll, and you barely had time to prepare yourself before he jabbed his fingers into your side causing you to squeal. ‘Don’t make fun of me. This is serious.’

‘I never said it wasn’t!’

‘Then why are you laughing at me?’

‘Because you’re freaking out over nothing. Aging is a part of life, babe. It happens to everyone.’ Despite the thankful smile he threw your way, there was still a subtle sadness behind it.

You knew it was because he felt like his childhood was ending, and that sooner or later he would have to get a proper job working for his dad, and this bubble of weightlessness would burst.

‘You know,’ you said, ‘I’ll still love you. No matter how old we are. No matter what happens, that will always be true.’

His eyes softened, the tentative smile widening. ‘I love you,’ he said, and the pebble of truth sent ripples through your soul.

+

When the waitress took your order, you couldn’t help noticing the way her eyes lingered on him just a moment too long.

You couldn’t blame her. Time had done wonders for Steve, fine tuning him into a handsome young man, all broad shoulders and arms that had become toned with the work he’d done for the town to help rebuild.

A weird silence settled over the two of you when he looked up from the menu.

You wanted to ask him about how he’d been, about anything and everything, but your tongue was cemented to the roof of your mouth, and all you could do was stare at him.

After darting his tongue across his lips, he asked, ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve been good,’ you lied, used to the bitter taste the words left in your mouth. ‘How are you?’

He nodded his head. ‘Yeah, good. Just working at the Rehabilitation Centre still.’

Working felt like an understatement. According to the newspapers you read on occasion, Steve Harrington was leading the trauma recovery unit to help people understand and deal with the trauma they’d faced when the town had been ripped apart. Before that, he’d been a part of the clean up crew and assisted with rebuilding the town.

And to him, it was just working.

But you couldn’t say that to him. You couldn’t tell him how amazing he was, and what difference he was making to people’s lives, and just how proud you were of him. Not anymore.

‘That’s…good,’ you finished lamely. ‘How’re the kids?’

The kids that you abandoned, a tiny voice in the back of your head whispered.

Steve gave you a quick once over, as if assessing if he was going to tell you. ‘They’re good. Senior year this year. High school’s been rough for them, you know, with everything, but they’re doing well. They’re nerds, so what can you expect.’

It was just a joke, but for the first time in five years, you smiled.

He returned it, albeit close-lipped. His guard was still up, an invisible wall that was keeping you at a distance.

It hurt, to be on the receiving end of his coldness.

By nature, he was aloof, carefree in a way that had attracted you to him in the first place.

Now, he was burdened with the shadows of doubt that you had created.

The shame threatened to burn you alive.

+

Steve driving was a common sight.

So common, in fact, that he had been dubbed the taxi service by the kids, the Harrington household receiving numerous calls at all times of day or night begging him to drive them wherever they needed to go.

And despite his groaning and moaning and protesting, Steve Harrington could never say no to taking them across town at two in the morning.

‘Henderson, shut up,’ he muttered, turning down the radio that the curly-haired boy had reached through the seats to turn up.

Steve was teetering on the edge of insanity, the lack of sleep combined with the atrociously noisy freshman all squashed up in the back seat of his BMW. His eye twitched, fingers drumming out random patterns on the steering wheel to try and ground himself in the present moment.

You could only watch on with bleary eyes as he tried to keep himself on this side of going to jail for murdering a gaggle of freshman.

‘What?’ Dustin said, leaning forward to turn it up again. ‘It’s just music.’

You snapped forward and smacked his hand away. He had the gall to look offended.

‘What’d you do that for?’ he screeched.

‘Because you’re being annoying.’

‘Hey, if anyone’s being annoying, it’s Max. She won’t move over, and I’m stuck on the floor.’ The resulting punch he received on the arm was loud enough that you heard it from the front seat.

‘I am not,’ she snarked. ‘You’re the one who called us all and said it was an emergency.’

Sleep still clouding his voice, Steve added, ‘Yeah, and if we get to Mike’s and I find out it’s not an emergency, you’re dead, Henderson. Got it?’ He yawned, setting off a chain reaction for everyone except Dustin.

‘He’s just grumpy he’s missing out on his beauty sleep, Dustin,’ you murmured.

Steve’s eyeroll was almost audible as he pulled up out the front of the Wheeler’s place, Mike vibrating with excitement in the driveway. Will was more subdued beside him, but both their smiles grew tenfold when Lucas, Max, Dustin, and El clambered out of the car.

The doors to the car were slammed shut with little more than a ‘thank you’ from Lucas and El, and they were all practically tripping over each other to get inside the house. The two of you watched after them, ensuring they all got inside safely.

Without the constant chatter of the kids, the car was a hell of a lot quieter, but despite it, your previous exhaustion was creeping away from you.

Glancing over at Steve, you could see his eyes threatening to close, so you reached out and placed a hand on his arm. ‘You want me to drive?’

He looked at you. ‘No, I’m fine. I just need to go back to bed,’ he answered as he peeled away from the curb and into the night.

‘Pretty boy need his beauty sleep?’ you teased.

As you watched him laugh from the passenger side, you couldn’t imagine a better life than this one.

+

The bells above the door chimed as more people filed into the café and took a seat at the table across for you.

You recognized them as the family who had lived down the street from you as kid. The five years hadn’t been as kind to them, skin sagging as age brought them further from their youth. They had always been kind to you as a kid, a little overbearing, maybe, but constant and kind.

Seeing them now, your stomach soured in an awful way and your eyes averted before they could catch them.

Steve saw it all. The shift in emotion. The way you fiddled with the sleeves of your jacket that he knew mean that you were nervous.

The jacket he had bought for you seven years ago.

When you finally returned your gaze from the linoleum tabletop to his face, his expression had softened a fraction. Anyone else mightn’t have noticed it.

But you did.

So, you took a leap.

+

Everything was wrong.

The silence from the main street that was torn in two. The busker than normally stood on the curb was gone, another victim to Vecna.

The cleanup was still in full force, and your second week of searching for people lost in the rubble had turned into searching for the bodies of the people who you had grown up beside.

Neighbours. Classmates. Teachers. Coworkers.

Vecna’s carnage hadn’t spared anyone. Even though El had stopped him, it hadn’t been enough to stop him from tearing apart your home.

You had failed.

You had failed Max.

You had failed Eddie.

Everyone had depended on you, and you failed them.

The least you could do was try and find them, to try and save them. But even now, you weren’t quick enough, and anyone left beneath it all would be gone.

Those dark thoughts had begun to haunt you. They had you second guessing every move you made, leaving you wondering if you’d just tried harder, if you’d run faster, if you’d thought quicker, would everything be different?

Darkness began to seep into your everyday life, shadowing any joy and light in a cloud of distrust and agony. Because it could all be taken away from you.

Everything you loved had already been tainted by the darkness, and now that darkness was in your head.

It was everywhere.

And it was all your fault.

By the end of the second week of search and rescue, the supervisors called it.

There were no more bodies to be found. The thought should have been a good one. It should have been hopeful.

But as you shed your high-vis vest and kicked off your boots outside your door, failure was the only lonely word tumbling around in your skull.

With shaking hands, you turned the key to your front door, intent on letting yourself fall into the oblivion of sleep as soon as you got inside.

But as you stepped into your house, you froze in the doorway. Because Steve was sitting on your couch, with a bouquet of roses in his hands.

He was still dressed for his shift at the Rehabilitation Centre, nametag emblazoned with his name in giant capital letters followed by: Ask me for help!

Your eyes were laser focused on the flowers in his hands. They were ornate, over the top, and something that you would have kissed him silly for two months ago.

Now, they were a bloodstain against the mess of your house.

‘What is that?’ you asked, voice shaky.

Steve glanced between the roses and you. ‘They’re flowers. I heard that it was your last shift at search and rescue today.’

Failure clamped around your heart. ‘And you got me flowers?’

His brow furrowed, and you saw his start to second-guess himself. ‘Well, yeah, I just thought that it would be nice, considering—’

‘—considering what?’ you seethed. ‘Considering that I couldn’t save everyone?’

He started, taking a step back at the ferocity in you voice. ‘What? No. I thought—’

You barked a laugh. A sad, broken sound that reflected just how you felt inside. ‘—You thought wrong. I don’t want flowers, Steve. I don’t want you to pretend that everything is OK just because you don’t have to deal with the reality of looking for people every day.’

It was a low blow. And it wasn’t fair. He did just as much to help Hawkins as you did. But your mind didn’t care about fair.

The flowers in his hands fell to his side. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that I don’t fucking want you to be here sprouting your ‘Everything is going to be OK!’ shit to me right now.’

Steve’s face dropped, and hurt flashed across his face. ‘I’m not—’

‘You are!’ you spat. ‘Nothing is going to be OK. Nothing is going to be all right. It’s never going to go back to normal, because everything is gone. The people. Our town. Our friends. It’s all gone.’

He didn’t move, your words pinning him to his spot in your living room. ‘Baby, things will change. It’s going to take time and effort, but we can do this.’

‘Nothing is going to be OK,’ you said after a pause. ‘It’s not. And we can’t do this.’

He froze. ‘What?’

‘We can’t do this,’ you repeated, not even looking at him.

His voice shook, but, still, you kept your eyes averted. ‘What are you saying?’

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. He just looked at you. But then he was angry. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. You don’t get to just tap out when things go wrong. That’s not fair.’ He crossed the room in a few long strides until he was a few feet away. ‘We promised we would do this together—’

‘I don’t want to,’ you cut him off. ‘I don’t want this.’

‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that you want to just give up on us after three years. No. No.’ You weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself.

Either way, it didn’t work. ‘I do. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do it.’

‘Where is this coming from? I know that the Upside Down stuff is bad, but we’ve done it before, and we can do it again. We just need—’

‘Steve,’ you cut in. ‘I don’t want you.’

The words sliced through the room, through the world.

They were the final nail in the coffin.

Steve stood opposite you, the heart he had just held out in his hand to you bruised and bloody, all by your own doing.

A tiny voice inside your head—the reasonable one that you had locked away—was screaming. It pounded against the door with all its might, begging you not to let this go, begging you not to let him go.

But you slammed it behind another door, drowning it out with the swirling darkness you had become accustomed to.

When Steve opened his mouth, his voice threatened to break you. ‘You…You don’t want…me?’

If you wanted to go back, if you even wanted to try and scramble back to escape the mess you had just made of both your hearts, this was the only chance.

You finally looked up from the ground and into his teary, heartbroken eyes, and you said, ‘No.’

+

‘Steve,’ you started, aware of your racing heart and shaking hands. The way he looked at you now, you could see his wariness. You could see the way he readied himself for what you were about to say. And seeing him that way, seeing the way that you had made him, it was enough to swallow your pride. ‘I’m sorry.’

Whatever he thought you were going to say, it obviously hadn’t been that, because his eyes widened, and his lips parted. ‘What?’ he managed.

‘I—I’m sorry, for that night. For saying those things to you. For—For throwing you away when we needed each other most. I’m sorry.’ As you said the words, you turned the key to the door of the part of yourself that you had kept locked up for five years.

You allowed it out, and god, did it ache at the freedom.

Steve couldn’t tear his eyes from you, the raging internal battle he was having clear on his face. It was ugly, but you were its creator, and you had to face it.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anymore, so you just waited.

You would wait an eternity for it. For him. You would give him whatever he needed from you. Even if it was to never step foot in Hawkins ever again, you would give that to him.

Whatever he wanted, it was his. Because everything you had ever had, everything you had ever been, it had always belonged to him.

Time stretched, mindless chatter droning out until his voice became the only one you could hear.

‘OK,’ he said.

And then he smiled.

[cocogrrrl]

waiting list

“do you even love me?” the question floated stale in the air. (or you and stan talk things out)

stan marsh x gn!reader cw: angsty, neglectful (i think?) relationships, implied self destructive stan, big-hearted yn :( wc: 777

an: stangst season!!! i love this a lot its very personal heart heart heart let a silly guy be silly

“Do you even love me?” The question floated stale in the air.

Deep down, you trusted within yourself that he did love you, yet you also felt like it could very much be otherwise. If he wanted to, he would. What exactly does it mean for someone like Stan to love you? What would it look like? Cause you’re sure as hell it wouldn’t look like this.

“I do,” his words felt incomplete. It felt like there was a but. However, whether it’d be an explanation or an excuse, it was buried within his throat.

“Then why do I have to question if you even like me?”

You knew he was beside you, but god you’re so far away from him that you could’ve sworn that two feet felt like two thousand. If you reached your hand out for him to hold, it’ll never meet his, even if he wanted to hold your hand. It’s because he might never see your hand extending out to him.

You wondered if any of your words even registered in his head at a distance like this.

“I’m sorry…” He sighed, relieving pressure by rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t want a sorry, Stan. I want us to be happy again. An apology isn't going fix everything.”

You swore that this is like your hundredth time repeating this. Maybe you’ll never be able to reach him—no matter what you do. When the vinyl has a divot in it, it usually skips sections or repeats it. To him, whenever you have these conversations, you are just like a broken record.

“Well, what should I do then?”

“I don’t know? I just want us to go back to how it was when we started dating. I want everything to go back to ‘normal.’”

“What exactly is normal?”

“...I wouldn’t know, I guess.”

You didn’t like this side of him. The side that seemed to be always so skeptical of everything. You learned how to love it, though. You’ve always stuck to the rule that if you love someone, you should love them a hundred percent. Anything else is just an idealized version of them.

“Do you feel even a little bit bad, Stan? For either one of us?

“Of course I do.” Finally, his gaze is turned to yours. “I feel bad that I keep trying to push everything away. It’s hurting both of us.” His tone was sympathetic, guilty even.

“Then why don’t you do anything to fix it?”

Because it’s all he knows. Because it is his second nature. Because it’s the only language that he’s been taught to speak.

You already knew the answer. Why did you even bother?

“It’s hard, dear. You know it is.” He took a long exhale. It almost felt dragged to piss you off. You knew you were looking a bit too into the lines, but everything right now seemed to either tick you off or make you upset.

“I know, but I’ve never even seen you try.” Or at least fully commit to it.

“I really have tried. I just… It’s really difficult.”

“Can’t I do anything to help? Please, I want to help you. I want us to go back to how it was.”

That, perhaps, is your greatest weakness. Your inability to let go of the past. You are a hoarder of memories. Ones you could throw out, you don’t. You keep them in your palms and will cling to them to make you feel fulfilled.

The collection of memories you hold are reminders that you have been happy. The present is here to pull you down. The future is a reminder of doom, but can also be a beacon of hope. As of now, things for you are bleak.

“How long will it take? Stan, I can’t keep waiting forever for something I’m not sure will ever come.”

You weren’t sure if that was a lie or the truth.

On one hand, you constantly lie restless, waiting for any semblance of a healthy life between the two of you. It was like watching the bottom of a large hourglass, unsure when will the sand run out. All you had and were left to do was watch and wait—hoping that the end will come while you were present.

On the other hand, you had a big heart. If your heart had a bouncer, Stan would have no issue with that. His name is tattooed on the waiting list. You knew deep in yourself he’s left a big dent in you, but scars make you beautiful, right?

One beat.

Two beats.

Three beats.

“Why don’t you wait for someone else then?”

[escarlatellie]

answers in the pouring rain ; platonic!joel miller. (1.4k.)

⤿ gn!reader, pre-ellie, comfort except joel does it..differently? your home life isn't the best, crying, brief mention of blood. "cigarette daydreams" referenced in the title.

⤿ out late at night, an old guy you've never met before comforts you the best he knows how.

your cries are quiet.

fedra had never been too empathetic towards the people in its quarantine zones, especially not the children. years go by, you know? eventually, they stop caring about the stability the zones’ adults offer the kids, only concerned with population and physical wellbeing. as long as everyone stayed alive and fungus-free, everything outside of that wasn’t their problem. to the uneducated individual, the fireflies’ motto, when you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light would seem comforting, but is really just another plea for numbers. 

you wish you were that kind of uneducated individual.

curled up against a dusty brick wall, drenched thanks to the pouring rain, you really, really wish you were one of those uneducated individuals. it’s not that you’re afraid, or that you’re lost. your physical well-being is as good as it will ever be. objectively, there’s nothing wrong with you. it’s the people around you that hurt. 

at this point, you’re not sure if the wetness on your cheeks is the rain or your own tears. 

curled into a fetal position on the ground, you try and muffle any sound in fear of any soldiers on patrol coming your way and bringing you home. it’s pretty late, and you have a strict curfew which you should be following and shit, you don’t want to go home. you’d rather freeze out here in the cold than go back home, back to the yelling and the screaming, the gaslighting which you’d only realized recently was…a thing. 

that house was your own personal hell, and you’d do anything to get out of it even if it meant being thrown into the world of infected, the world which many considered dangerous and both physically and mentally taxing. little did they know the world you lived in, the world you grew up in, the people you stuck around were just the same. all you wanted, really, was the kind of home you’d read about in those cheap storybooks you could buy for a couple of ration cards. where the mother and father are happy, teach their children nicely and speak to them fondly. 

another sob tears itself out of your throat at the thought, that some kid in the exact same zone as you could be enjoying their night. could be sitting at a dinner table giggling with their parents and chatting up a civil storm with a sibling or two. your parents just…weren’t like that. 

dirt and mud cling to your bottoms, frustration pooling in your gut alongside the resentment and raw devastation that follows such an absolutely shit night. everything had been fine in the morning; you’d gotten up to help your father out with fedra’s assigned tasks, went about your morning as per usual, sat down to lunch alongside a couple other volunteers, hung out with a few friends, then came home for dinner and instantly whatever semblance of happiness had been ruthlessly picked at and torn apart by the words your parents had spoken, venom thrown your way as a way of venting their own frustrations and bringing you down. 

it was as if they were completely different people; happy and agreeable to outsiders, to those who knew nothing better, but harsh and unrelenting to you and even each other at certain points. or maybe you were just desperate enough for a sense of normalcy to convince yourself your parents were good until they decided not to be.

your chest aches with silent cries, mouth opening and closing with the urge to scream but knowing that doing so would wreak havoc. it’d be another thing for your parents to get upset at you for, and having all those extra eyes on you is far from what you want, so you let your shoulders shake with the effort of controlling your sobs, let your airways constrict under the pressure, and let yourself fall apart until your sobs weaken and suddenly you feel empty but somehow heavier.

you don’t notice the subtle crunching of gravel beneath someone else’s unsuspecting footsteps until they’re too close; there’s nowhere to hide beneath this overhang, and if this person turns the corner too sharply, even catches a glimpse of you, you’d be done for. 

what you don’t expect to see turn the corner is an old man, probably in his fifties, hauling a heavy-looking bag of god knows what over his shoulder as he makes his way to wherever the fuck old men go at this time of night. you’re actually not sure if he sees you, limping through dusk’s dim lighting with streaks and blatant splatters of someone else’s blood covering almost every inch of him. you hope he doesn’t, the idea of him killing you as some kind of witness creeping into your head before you can stop it—turns out he’s seen you, anyway.

“the hell are you doing, kid?”, he calls out, quiet albeit the desertedness of the area. you’re not sure if he sees you flinch, but something in his voice softens—if just a little bit—when he inches closer and gets a look at your face, simultaneously granting you the chance to see his a little closer up. he’s definitely old, you think, and anxiety is settling at the base of your spine, telling you to run because stranger danger, but who are you going to scream for–who’s going to save you? your parents?

“...it’s late. you should be home with your parents.”

his voice filters its way in, only just slipping past the returning haze and keeping you grounded. you really don’t need the whole i’ll walk you home shit, especially from some guy who has no idea what’s going on at home, so you just shake your head, curl up a little more, and wave him off.

“you’re one to talk.”, you say, and you swear you hear him laugh over the sound of rain falling on the gravel. then, you hear his footsteps—though you’re unsure to where they’re going—, and something in you aches at the thought of being left alone because you’re pretty sure this is the first time someone has seen you cry past the age of, what, ten? you can’t remember the last time a grown man spoke to you so kindly in the qz.

he probably has his own kids, you have to remind yourself, lest your mind wander and your body move without your consent. he doesn’t have time for some rando like me. 

then, someone grunting beneath the effort of a rather arduous task, the subtle rip of weeds out of their stems beneath someone else’s weight, a faint jangle of goods from inside someone’s bag, sounds right next to you and shit, said grown man has taken time out of his day to sit next to you after realizing you’re not doing so hot. you thought you were done crying, but more tears spring to your eyes and roll hot and heavy down your cheeks, eyes opening solely to blink them out.

he’s quiet, this stranger, staring off into space after putting at least a foot’s amount of space between you two. his hands are folded clumsily in his lap, legs crossed similar to how fedra’s kindergarten teachers teach younger kids to sit. some of the blood is crusting on his face, and some of it, you realize, observing him out of the corner of your eye, is his. there are open wounds on his face, god knows where else, and instead of going to get those treated, this grown-ass man is sitting next to someone as they just about finish bawling their eyes out. 

the idea is just too much for you to understand. why? you think, why is he—

“name’s joel.” he mutters, looking at you with the same gaze as those fathers peer upon their children in those childish storybooks, speaking to you in the same tone a father speaks to their little kid, sat across the dinner table. 

you feel your shoulders shake under the force of another sob, curling in on yourself in the same way you had been the past hour or so, out here in the dark on your own even though you’re just barely an adult trying to get by in one piece. you give him your name through the tremors, and this old man, joel, gets comfortable in his spot against this crusty, falling-apart, poorly-painted brick wall on the fucking floor, just so he can be with you as you cry.

your cries are a little louder, now. 

this time at least you’re not alone.

[lovelylogans]

the parent trap

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: the concorde(ance)

A goodbye, a hello.

⁂

Everyone’s been very quiet.

The gloom of the rare, rainy California day—so like and yet unlike the day Roman and Remus discovered they were truly brothers—seems to have settled in a grave, suppressive pall of silence over the Jameses. 

Dad reaches over to hold Uncle Logan’s hand in both of his during takeoff; Uncle Logan clings back just as tightly. Roman clutches at his Dad’s arm, trying to help where he can, hoping that—

But no. There’s no sudden stop, no reason for them to go off the runway, barely even a delay for the weather. They lift off.

They leave.

And the shock of leaving them seems to settle in fullness over Roman, leaving him trapped in a dull stupor. He sets his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest, and stares sightlessly out of the plane window.

It didn’t work. Operation Augustus. It didn’t work.

It’s all he can think about.

Was there something he could have done to make it work? 

Do something like lock them in a closet at the hotel? But no—they had both been so shocked at seeing one another again, that could have backfired so easily.

Insist on them going on some kind of moonlit horse ride through the vineyard? Dad would have seen through him immediately—and Pa had wanted to go to bed early, citing a very long day—

Pretend to lose his passport? No, that certainly wouldn’t have worked—Dad and Uncle Logan would have been so distracted by the notion that any semblance of romance would have been set aside for the importance of international identification.

Had he been too harsh on Maddox? Too over-the-top with the boat date? 

It didn’t work. Roman had to have done something wrong, but what?!

Not staying at Pa’s—no breakfast by Virgil in the mornings, who ruffles his hair and tells him to eat up, no Sprout or Sammy, no vast green vineyard to greet him at the bedroom window, no warm bright sun and lush fields and blue skies.

No Virgil, who scolds him fondly, stands leaning in doorways dressed in his flannels with his arms crossed, smiling and yet still a bit grumpy, with his special treats at almost every turn.

And Papa—who Roman’s wanted to know all his life, who he’s just started to bond with as him and not as Remus, the sort of man who’d written Roman letters just because he missed him, who had cried from happiness at realizing he was Roman and cuddled him on the couch and taught him about California wildlife and snuck them s’mores even when he was upset and—and his Pa.

And Remus, gone—no more sitting together at meals, or pushing their beds together late at night, or intimidating everyone away from the task they want to do—two weeks spent terrorizing each other and six spending practically every sleeping and waking moment together, the way they might have done all their lives.

What did Roman do?

Roman, staring out the window still—his vision obscured by blindingly white clouds—is suddenly aware of his eyes spilling over.

He clears his throat as softly as he can and, as subtly as he can, he reaches up with his finger and wipes away a tear.

Thanksgiving, he promised, Roman thinks, attempting to will himself into getting a stiff upper lip. He promised. I’ll see him and Remus again, in hardly any time at all. 

There’s an odd sound happening. A sort of muffled shh-shh-shh, but not the sort of sound made by a person.

He turns his head.

Uncle Logan has his hand on Dad’s back, rubbing his thumb back and forth every so often; the source of the shh-shh-shh susurrus. 

His Dad is fiddling with his necklace, biting the inside of his cheek, staring down at the airplane serving tray.

“Oh, Dad,” Roman says softly, and he leans against his father as Uncle Logan wraps an arm about Dad’s shoulders, also staring down at his feet.

And so father, cousin, and son sit, hushed in their own miserable little worlds, as the globe keeps turning and the earth flies by.

⁂

What with the emotional turmoil and the awfulness of planes and the incoming jet lag, it’s safe to say that Seven Pembroke Lane is a very comforting sight indeed.

At least, it is to Janus, who will hug his Father hello, go upstairs, slip into his silkiest, comfiest pajamas, smoke the last of his Parliaments, and soundly sleep until morning.

Or at least he will try to sleep. If he isn’t kept up by thoughts of five o’clock shadow rough against his cheek, big, calloused hands in his, the latest laugh lines around his eyes…

Stop, Janus tells himself. But it’s no use.

He can never quite bring himself to stop thinking of Patton completely.

The car rolls to a stop; Roman practically flings himself in the street in his haste to get inside, only for Logan to hastily hurry after him, put a hand on his shoulder, and steer him round to collect his luggage from the boot.

They all shuffle inside, Logan hastily gathering coats to hang to avoid any spare droplets hitting the hardwood.

“Hello?” Janus calls out. “Father? We’re home.”

“Grandfather?” Roman’s voice echoes throughout the house, and Janus absently pats his shoulder.

“I’ll check the study, darling.”

He ambles forward as Roman slouches on the nearest couch, looking deeply dissatisfied at the world in general.

He’ll buck up soon. Janus hopes.

He smiles at a familiar sight; a newspaper obscuring any semblance of a face.

“Hey there. I hope you haven’t gotten the house all smoky while we were away.”

The newspaper is laid down. Janus gapes at the sight.

It’s the face of his son, beaming, a gray streak in his hair, silver-and-green studs in his ears—but Roman’s just behind him—so that means—

Janus clutches at the door frame, suddenly doubting his ability to stand.

“Hey, Dad,” Remus it’s Remus he’s here, “Did you know that the Concorde gets you here in half the time?”

“I’d heard that,” Janus says faintly.

And then there’s the sound of rapid feet behind him, and he sees enough of the blur to see Roman, open-mouthed and laughing in disbelief.

“Remus!”

“Roman!” 

And the boys collide into each other with such force that they both collapse on the Persian rug, clutching each other tightly and babbling over each other.

“What are you doing here—?!”

“—should’ve seen the looks on your faces—”

“—but we left before you—!”

“—well, it took us around 30 seconds after you all left for us to realize we didn’t want to lose you two again—”

“Sorry,” Janus says. “We?”

And then through the door to the parlor, out steps the man whose face has taken up permanent residency in Janus’s mind over the past eleven years. Brown jacket, hair mussed, five-o’clock shadow, laugh lines and all.

“We,” Patton says softly.

As if on cue, there’s a shout of shock and then a cry of joy from the kitchen—surely the third James has found his match.

“See,” Patton says. “I made the mistake of not coming after you once, Janus. I’m not going to do that again.”

Janus swallows, licks his lips, and flails desperately for some kind of decorum.

“And I suppose you just expect me to go weak at the knees and fall into your arms and cry hysterically and say, ‘We'll just figure this whole thing out.’ A bicontinental relationship with our sons being raised here and... and there and…”

Janus gulps. All the while, Patton is walking toward him, slowly. Oh so slowly.

“And you and I just picking up where we left off and... and growing old together and…” Janus falters.

Patton is close enough to touch now. Decorum has fled his mind completely.

“And…”

Janus swallows. Patton’s big, calloused hands cup his face, just as warm and rough as he remembers. 

“Come on, Patton, what do you expect? To live happily ever after?” He tries to say it derisively.

It comes out desperately.

“Yes,” Patton says, his voice soft. “To all of it. Yes. Except no crying. No more tears.”

“Not even happy ones?” Janus says, and Patton smiles.

“I’ll make an exception for the happy ones.”

And Patton’s lips are against his.

And the rest of the world falls away.

The familiar feeling of those lips—soft, ever so slightly chapped—and their lips move together like they had once all those years ago, like picking up a waltz whose steps you thought you’d half-forgotten but it was never gone, not truly gone, the memory simply needed to be paired with the right partner…

His hands are on Patton’s broad, warm shoulders, those big calloused hands on his face feel just as he remembers, and Janus moves closer, closer, twining his fingers in Patton’s hair, soft and fluffy under his fingers, their chests pressed together, and there is only yes and finally and love you.

They part; Patton beaming, Janus smiling back at him, when they hear a little squeak.

They turn to see Roman, swooning with all the fervor of a hopeless romantic; Remus, looking about five milliseconds away from yelling “EW GROSS” at them both and heckling them mercilessly.

But Roman flings his arms tight around Remus’s neck, beaming.

“We actually did it!” Roman says, with a great squeal.

Patton chuckles, wrapping an arm around Janus’s shoulders. 

Janus decides fuck decorum and goes in for another kiss.

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[gilded-garnet]

A Sickening Realisation

Intro: It had been two days since he'd begged you to speak to Ominis on his behalf, and every second since had been agony.

It was a cruel punishment in itself, this limbo, trapped within his own mind. Now, all he could do was await their judgement.

Theme: Angst / WC: 900

Notes: I wanted to dig into a bit of Sebastian's headspace in that period after you know what happens, so this fic is set whilst he's still waiting to hear about his fate. Contains Sebastian and Ominis angst!

Sebastian rung his hands together, pacing across the stone floor of the Undercroft. He could feel the cold beads of sweat clinging to the back of his neck.

He'd had to do it. Solomon had as good as condemned Anne to her fate. Always angry. Always blaming. Always in the way.

So, why had you looked at him like that?

He thought you'd understand, but you'd looked at him like a stranger - like he was some unpredictable beast.

He didn't have a choice, he reassured himself. He had been the one trying to help. With his uncle gone -

"There is always a choice."

Ominis' words from the Scriptorium invaded his thoughts. Damn him and his moralising, Sebastian thought bitterly. Ominis was weak, he -

He forcefully prevented his mind from going any further. Ominis wasn't weak, he was one of the strongest people Sebastian knew.

And you. You, who - if rumours were to be believed - had killed Rookwood, killed poachers, killed Ashwinders and Loyalists...how dare you stand there and judge him!

It took significant effort to master his rapidly spiralling thoughts again. What was wrong with him? Even his own mind was traitorous; he wouldn't think these things, he wasn't like that.

He stopped pacing as the sudden, sickening realisation consumed him, drowning him. The weight of it forced him to the ground on his hands and knees. He was shaking, he realised, but it was like he was disconnected from his body.

He'd killed his uncle. He'd actually done that. That was exactly the kind of person he was.

He let out a choked sob as the guilt wracked him, and he pressed his forehead into the cold stone. After his sides ached and he had no more tears to shed, he tried to regain some semblance of sanity.

Get it together, Sebastian. Think about what's important right now. Anne. Merlin, he needed to see her desperately.

"Sebastian?"

His heart jumped into his throat. Ominis.

"H-here." He hated how his voice shook with just that simple word and was selfishly pleased that Ominis couldn't see the state of him, crumpled on the floor.

"Are you - ?" Ominis began, and then cut himself off before he could finish. No doubt he'd been about to ask if he was ok, and stopped because the answer was clearly a resounding no.

Ominis walked towards him whilst Sebastian dragged himself to his feet. His body felt unbelievably heavy.

"We spoke, and I - I've spoken to Anne. She thinks you should pay for what you've done."

Sebastian held his breath.

"But... she doesn't want to turn you in. She said she wants you to live with the guilt and pain you've caused."

Sebastian exhaled the breath he'd been holding. He wasn't sure that what he was feeling could be classed as relief.

Ominis fiddled with his wand, a nervous habit. "There's more. She said...Sebastian, she doesn't want to see you again. Ever."

Sebastian felt like his blood had turned to ice.

"But...but she can't..." His voice had gone up an octave.

He would never see Anne again? She wouldn't even be dead, just out of reach. This truly was the worst torture imaginable. Life without Anne would be like living without an arm - no - like living without one half of his soul. The Dementors might as well take him away now.

"Ominis, please, you can't - you can't let..."

Ominis' eyebrows pinched together in sudden fury as he jabbed his wand against Sebastian's chest. He stumbled back, his back hitting the wall.

"Enough, Sebastian! I am tired. It took every last bit of willpower, and a healthy dose of convincing, for me not to go straight to the headmaster and tell him everything. I should never have told you about the Scriptorium and I'll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life - of what it led to!"

Sebastian could only listen in stunned silence. Ominis' wand was pressing so hard into his chest it was sure to leave a bruise.

"What you put me through in there..." Ominis' voice had become quiet. Sebastian could hear the emotion - the hurt - in it. He felt it rip another hole in his already tattered heart. "...I realised then and there, that maybe you didn't care about me at all."

Sebastian's mouth was dry. Ominis was his best friend; causing him pain was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, he couldn't deny the truth that he had hurt him. Had used him.

He had been blind. His search had become all-consuming. He had lost sight of everything - and everyone - else.

Ominis withdrew his wand, standing straight and smoothing the front of his robes. Sebastian could see the emotion he witheld in the twitch of his jaw.

When he next spoke, the words were clipped and cold. "Anyway. That is the situation. You'll have to live with it."

With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

"I'm sorry, Ominis." He called after him. He meant it.

Ominis didn't turn to answer. "We'll see."

Then he was gone, leaving Sebastian alone in the dark once again. It turned out he had plenty more tears left after all.