#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 🥺😡"

[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.

[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.

[stupid-sloot-headcanons]

Jason unintentionally giving his darling nightmares after making them watch tapes of him getting tortured and him just laying beside darling trying to calm her down. He’s still mad darling manipulated him but realizing he’s ruined any semblance of what he once had with the very person that gave him the will power to survive as long as he did through joker’s torment hurts more than anything

😛

And a fucked up part of him thinks this is what he needs. If Darling is traumatized like him and sees what broke him, then they'll understand now that they're more like him. If that means he can't cling to the fantasy/hope that things could go back to what they once were, then so be it. They can both be broken together.

Also when he forces them to watch, he has the cowl on. This is a pure Arkham Knight move and he only takes off the cowl when it's over so they can see his face. He's the same person as the boy who was tortured and branded, and they have to see his "J" and face that fact. THAT is why he kidnapped them, that's why he's keeping them captive, and that's why he can't ever be the guy they fell in love with ever again. Joker broke him down and filled him up with hate and rage and a darkness that's never going away. But he still needs them, and despite everything he still loves them. He just can't show it in a way that's healthy anymore.

Also as the Knight, he's commenting over the footage and telling them exactly what he was thinking during some moments. It's very harsh and cruel and he's taunting in a way he normally isn't with them because he's so angry and feels so betrayed (like how he taunts Bruce in-game):

"I had one of the only good dreams I ever experienced during his torture that night because of you. See, he'd beaten me with the crowbar and broken my shoulder, and he always gave me some time to recover physically before he'd torture me again. So he did something different. I woke up tied to the bed and saw him give me a present: it was a picture of YOU, sleeping in your bed.

See, after he made me talk about all my loved ones, he'd gotten Harley to find you, break in and take a few things from your place. He stapled the picture to a teddy bear and said I deserved a little treat for being "such a good sport" about all this. And the funny thing is, it did make me feel less terrified. My nightmares would be a little less graphic if I had it with me. So it's no surprise that after a few days, he made me destroy it. He said if I didn't do it, he'd have to bring you to Arkham and get rid of "my real teddy bear" for me. Said that I wasn't a little kid, I was a man now, and it was time to put childish things away. So, I did. He made me light a match and watch it and the picture burn. And after that, the nightmares were always the same--him making me burn you for real."

This also has the effect of recontextualizing a lot of the shit Jason does and makes Darling feel bad for ever voicing discomfort. Like they always felt suffocated when sleeping with him because he kept clinging to them so tightly, and now they know it's because he was having a nightmare and needed to hold them like that teddy bear to make it bearable. And they know it's why whenever they squirmed or tried to move away, he'd sometimes jolt awake and cry out "NO!" and grab them so hard it left bruises on their waist.

[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.

[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.

[morgana-ren]

Ilya's whole personality is 'I don't care, darling' personified. He's crafted not giving a damn into a fine art, and he's had hundreds of years to do it. However, if you're clever, it's not hard to find his weak points, and he very much has them. Pushing him, however, is a risk you should calculate before you do it for multiple reasons.

Ilya, when irritated, will remind you not-so-subtly that you are helpless against him using his sheer size and deceptive strength as an effortless intimidation. He's bigger and far more powerful than you and he will use it against you. It's cute that you try to get a rise out of him, but remember, little girl, you are helpless, small, and weak, especially compared to him. He could hurt you so badly if he had the inclination. Keep pushing at him if it pleases you. By all means, go ahead.

He's going to bear down on you with a smile that's far too wide and uncanny from his usual subtle, snide grin; he's all fangs and ferocity now. He will simply walk forward until you are against a wall, trapping you against a corner because you have no choice but to move backwards until your back hits cement. His fingers are long and pale and tipped with razor-sharp claws, and he will softly crook your chin far too gently for any semblance of comfort, all the way up to look at him, even leaning down just a bit to impress upon you the size difference between you.

"Is that so, little one?"

You can try to resist him if you'd like. Fight and swat and lash-- it tickles him. He's lightning fast, puckering your cheeks in his palms until blood poppies from the narrow indents of his nails on your sweet little cheeks. He'll clench in too deeply right below your tender cheekbones, just hard enough that the soft flesh of your jaw grinds against the sharp jut of your teeth and you can taste blood on your tongue.

Ilya also does this when amused, so it can be difficult to tell when he's genuinely angry versus when he's simply toying with you. If you're canny, you can tell. You just have to pay attention.

There's a slight flash to his eyes, and a little twitch to his mouth. You'll have his full attention, versus the strange indifference there usually is. If that's not enough, there's other tells as well.

With Ilya, the difference between anger and neutrality is subtle-- if you can call it subtle. When he is genuinely angry, he will grab your skin, and it will hurt rather than simply asserting dominance, with his fingers will dig into your skin until you cry out. When he shoves you against a wall, it is enough for you to actually see stars when your head makes contact, clinging to him because you cannot right yourself without him anymore. When his steely fingers find your throat, there will be no reprieve, and he will squeeze until your vision tunnels and your eyes flutter. You will feel the bruising when he grabs.

He revels in watching your breath catch in your throat and the panic settle in as your heart rabbits behind your ribs, trying to claw free of him with all the little strength you can muster but ultimately unable to do a damn thing. He enjoys watching your eyes pop, tears brimming and eyes wide and terrified as you claw at his wrist, trying to free yourself, but he's just so strong. You are weak and he is ruthless. He adores watching you settle into the conclusion that you can't fight him.

He likes watching as you can do nothing but make big doe eyes up at him and mouth a silent prayer for forgiveness-- and hope he cares enough to listen. He could strangle the life from you, you know. And he will. It's best you remember that.

Ilya has no qualms with violence against his lover. He will backhand you and then gently dab away the blood, sighing his exasperation and telling you that you are so terribly needy. What is it you need? Do you need attention? Do you need affection? Do you need to be fucked? Clearly you do, seeing as you are so emphatic about making a mess to wave him down.

Ilya sucks because while he will punish you for angering him, he likes it. It intrigues him. He will punish you with one hand and coax you with the other. He's hundreds of years old and almost entirely numb, so anything that makes him feel anything is quite novel, especially if it's some dear thing he has his eyes set on. If you are clever enough to find his sensitive spots, that's enough to pique his interest. Life is an eternal game to him, and if you can play it back, it delights him.

Keep in mind, he will return the favor. He will poke and prod at your sensitive spots. He's a fantastic manipulator. He wants to play, and you're his plaything until you truly endear yourself.

As for my other OCs, there's really only Snakefang, who is a complete sub and currently married to Nightmare, and Nagendra, who I haven't much talked about at all on here. I'm always happy to talk about either of them, I just assume that's not what people are here for lmao.

Anyways, this will be the third time I have rewritten this! First time I saved it on mobile and it just.. disappeared. Second time, I wrote it and published it, and it published a version from before when I switched to mobile that was about.. two paragraphs long. I'm going to take it as that's the Gods way of telling me it wasn't finished-- not that most people give a good goddamn about my OCs enough outside of being polite to care. But anyway, that's why the question is screencapped (I had a fuckin' feeling something was going to happen after the first time. I just fuckin' knew.)

[airplanetae]

doing fine - blindsided ch. 2

genre: angst, idol au, breakup au, fluff

pairing: ex boyfriend!namjoon x reader, platonic yoongi x reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: having yoongi back in your life helps you get back to some semblance of normalcy.

a/n: hi y’all :) senior year of college is a trip. guess who started therapy?!? anyways, i have a research proposal and a rough draft due tomorrow that i haven’t started, but this fic was calling my name lol. unedited bc i was so eager to get it out to you guys lolol. as always, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

taglist: @4evahevah @ayatie97 <3<3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜

“I don’t get it.” You sigh. Your friends are right, this is ridiculous. 

“I mean, it’s not like we were married or had a kid. Why can’t I get over him?” You groan as you roll over in bed, throwing a pillow over your head.

“You’re mourning, Y/N. You’ve gotta go at your own pace.” Yoongi tries. He watches as your shoulders relax but your hands stay curled in tight fists.

“Nobody died.” You grumble. 

The pillow slides from your face to your chest and you cling to it like a child does a teddy bear. The crease Yoongi often feels on his own face has transferred to yours, making a home between your brows, and you’ve stolen his signature pout as well. The scene in front of him is a far cry from the noisy, outgoing, vivacious person he knew just a year ago.

It feels like you did, he wants to say. Physically, you’re right in front of him, very much alive, but you’re nothing like you used to be. This you is a shell of the Y/N he knows.

“I’ve mourned every coffee that Jungkook spilled before rehearsal.” He says.

That gets a laugh out of you, breaking your face out of its despondent mold.

Picking at the pillow’s tassels, you ask,“He spilled multiple coffees?” A giggle trickling into your words as you look at him.

“Yep, even after he promised he’d be ‘extra careful, hyung’, little brat even pinky swore.” He emphasizes Jungkook’s alleged promise, holding up his own pinky.

“Why did you keep bringing coffee around him if you knew he would spill it?” You chuckle.

He huffs out a laugh and shrugs. “I take my pinky swears very seriously, Y/N. The kid gave me his word and I foolishly trusted it.” He shakes his head. A wistful look takes over his face as he pretends to gaze into the distance. “So many delicious americanos...wasted.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You reply, turning back onto your side.

Yoongi takes a moment to look at you. You’ve changed out of the crewneck from last night, opting for a t-shirt from your alma mater and a pair of leggings. At his insistence, a tall glass of ice water sits on your bedside table. He’d even grabbed a coaster and fashioned the drink with a straw to encourage you to drink it. Hydration is key, he’d told you. 

The two of you had made some progress in cleaning up your apartment, starting with gathering up the take-out boxes and various wrappers dirtying your space. Once that was done, the piled-up dishes were loaded into the washer. Yoongi had even volunteered to take your clothes down to the washing machines in the basement despite laundry being his least favorite chore. With every flame of embarrassment that lit up your cheeks, he brushed any discomfort off. He was sad for you, yes. But he knew the old you was still in there, waiting to be brought back to life.

“I think I might try to text one of my old friends, maybe see if she’s in town,” you posed, curious for his opinion.

Yoongi hesitated, turning his answer over in his mouth. On the one hand, he was pissed at your “friends” for abandoning you in this state. On the other, he supported anything that got you back to normal.

“That sounds great,” He finally worked out, hoping that having your back turned meant you didn’t hear the slight unease in his voice.

You don’t notice. You simply roll back over and grab your drink, taking a nice long gulp from it. Exhaling, you look around the room before stopping on him. He’s still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair slightly messy from not being brushed. Waves of guilt begin licking at you again, knowing you’ve taken time from his break.

“Why don’t you, um, head back and get changed? I know you’ve got to be ready to get out of those clothes.” You ask, looking down at the floor. 

That crease works itself in between his brows again, coupled with a quirk in his lip. He is desperate for a hot shower, but he doesn’t want to leave you. Sensing his reluctance, you double down on your suggestion.

“Really, I’ll be fine. You earned this break, Yoongi, please,” you insist, meeting his eyes again.

While he’s not entirely thrilled with the idea, he agrees, telling you that he’ll be back in a couple of hours. Once the door shuts behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The release in your shoulders has tears gathering in your eyes. Not only did you not deserve Yoongi, but you’d been humiliated by having him see the state of your apartment, your life. Never before had you been this messy, this disgusting. And yet, he’d acted like it was nothing more than a minor spill of some water, just something to be cleaned up in a minute or so. Taking a deep breath, you glanced at the timer to see how long your clothes had left in the wash.

15:21.

Fifteen minutes left in the wash. A few hours until Yoongi got back. A million things that still needed to be done. Glancing at your bed, you tried to think back to the last time you’d changed the sheets. Hm. Nothing. You were drawing a blank.

“Wow. That is very cool and sexy of you to have nasty-ass sheets, y/n.” You laughed at yourself.  

So, you decided you would start there. After fetching new sheets from the closet, you figured you would make the bed while you were at it, regardless of if it was the middle of the day. After adding the old sheets to the laundry basket, you looked around at your room. A small burst of energy hit you and little by little, you worked through your entire room. Two trash bags and a pile of to-be donated clothes later, Yoongi was knocking on your door. Wiping the sweat off of your forehead, you dropped the bags next to the couch.

“One sec, Yoongs!” You called. Has it been that long? Sure enough, the time on the stove confirmed at least two hours had passed.

“Aw, fuck, my laundry!” You shouted, scurrying to the door.

You could hear Yoongi laughing as you opened the door, seeing a duffle in one of his hands and take-out in the other. Hearing your panic, he stepped to the side to let you run downstairs.

“I’ll be right back!” You called over your shoulder.

Yoongi just shook his head as he stepped past the threshold. Noticing the trash bags and pile of clothes, he wondered what you had gotten up to while he was out. He set his bag on the bar stool while he opened the dinner he’d grabbed for the two of you. He certainly didn’t feel like cooking, especially after the state of your fridge had made him shudder, which quickly earned him a jab to the rib from you.

“Whew! Okay, laundry is safely in the dryer,” you sighed, closing the door behind you. You stop at the smell of ramen and take notice of Yoongi standing at the counter. His hair has that fluffy quality to it again, along with a gentle sheen across his cheeks from the light. He looks refreshed, and completely out of place in your home. Swallowing your self-consciousness, you go to ask how it was at the dorms, but he stops you before you can get the words out.

“What’s in the bags?” He asks, reading over the slips to make sure your orders are correct.

“Oh, I, um, cleaned my room. And I went through some of my old clothes,” you explain.

He blinks in surprise, but it’s quickly replaced by a soft smile. He’s proud.

“Great. We’ll take the trash down after dinner, and I can run your clothes to a Goodwill or something tomorrow,” he offers.

You nod, clearing a space at the bar for the two of you to eat. As you start to dig in, you ask about traveling and the tour. As the ramen warms your stomach, Yoongi’s stories entertain you until it’s time to clean up. You keep prodding him for more details, listening intently as you fold your freshly dried laundry. As he talks, you realize it’s the first time you’ve seen some of these clothes in months. You try to blink away the tears gathering in your eyes, your heart swelling with gratefulness for the man sitting in front of you. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜

[dcscension]

[ froy gutierrez. cis male. he/him. ] did you see FRED wandering around town ? they’ve been in forks for [ four months ] so they should be used to the storms. word around town is that they’re [ 24 / 23 & a vampire. ] people either describe them as [ logical ] or [ withdrawn. ] there seems to be no in-between. well, when i think of them i picture [ foggy seaside cliffs, fleeting eyes that avoid your gaze & hunched shoulders in a well-worn flannel. ]

TW: BULLYING, DEATH

stats.

NAME. fred espinoza ( freaky fred ). AGE. 24, changed at 23. SPECIES. vampire, transitioning to feeding on animals. SEXUALITY. bisexual. PROFESSION. nothing currently ; former student / marine researcher. ABILITIES. aversion field. 

background.

if there was one word to describe fred’s life, it was lonely. he was a solitary child, even well before his parents’ fateful divorce. ( the very same divorce that left him in the hands of his stoic stockbroker father. ) he was an awkward and scrawny child, who only grew into an even more awkward and gangly teenager. fred was bullied for much of his life, and he quickly learned to cling to the fringes. if he kept his head down and didn’t attract attention, the other kids wouldn’t notice him as much. school hallways may have been hell, but he did find some solace in the classroom. he excelled at school, earning top marks and devouring science textbooks for fun. living so close to the california coast, fred eventually developed a keen interest in marine biology. this, combined with his dedication to academics, led him on a full-ride scholarship at stanford. before he knew it, he was graduating top of his class, and his favorite professor was offering him a solitary research position along the remote beaches of the pacific northwest. it was here on these beaches that the monster found him. shrouded by the seaside fog that normally brought him so much comfort, riley pounced. newly-turned, fred became no more than a pawn in victoria’s army. during this time, he did what he did best and kept his head down. eventually, fred came to distrust riley and victoria’s true intentions, and he decided to flee from battle — though, not before unsuccessfully warning bree tanner, one of the few people he’s ever considered a friend. now, in the aftermath of the battle, fred is testing the waters back in washington. though he originally fled to vancouver, he had only stuck around for a couple of days before he found himself wandering the outskirts of forks again. he’s trying to control his powers, with scarce success. he’s almost got half a mind to forge papers and enroll in the closest graduate program he can find, but the thought of repulsing all of the students holds him back. after everything that’s happened, he’s chasing some semblance of normalcy, but he’s not quite sure what that means anymore.

personality.

POSITIVE. logical, scholarly, self-preserving, courteous. NEGATIVE. withdrawn, circumspect, shy, distrusting. 

nerd alert !!!! fred feels most at ease when in pursuit of knowledge. he has a natural inclination to the sciences ( particularly biology, but he’s not really picky ). as a human, he was more comfortable around textbooks than people. now, as a vampire that literally disgusts people, books are his only company.

fred would be the type of boy to bring home to your parents, if only he wasn’t so shy. he’s proper polite — the shakes your father’s hand, compliments your mother’s cooking type. but he’ll also stumble over his words, refuse to meet their gaze, and drop his fork whenever he’s asked a direct question. unless it’s in an academic setting, he visibly shrinks from any sort of attention. 

he’s relatively new to the vampire lifestyle, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. his mind has always been clear and logical. he feels the thirst of course ( and oh god he wishes he didn’t ), but he’s never understood the frenzied bloodlust of his fellow newborns. 

speaking of the newborns... some may call it self-preservation, but fred calls it cowardice. when it comes down to it, fred will always flee at the first sight of danger. his instinct to run is what ultimately saved him from the grisly fate of the newborn army, but it’s also what got bree killed. what if he tried harder to convince her ? what if he stayed to protect her ? he harbors a deep guilt for this and can’t quite seem to shake it. 

fun facts.

8 times out of 10, you can find him at the beach. while the coastline carries bad memories for him, he takes some comfort in the familiarity of it all.

the other 2 times out of 10, he’s dipping in and out of libraries, book shops, etc. 

has wondered on more than one occasion if it would be possible for him to explore the ocean floor now that he’s indestructible and doesn’t have to breathe. 

has very recently been trying to transition into vegetarian vampirism. although he doesn’t feel quite the same bloodlust as other vampires his age, human blood still hits different u know

he is still pretty clueless about the vampire way of life. he knows the basics — don’t mess with the volturi, mostly — but that’s about it. 

potential plots.

a shapeshifter who catches him on la push beach because oops ! how was he supposed to know about the treaty ! the encounter could lead to animosity between them, or maybe an uneasy friendship.

volturi connections ! bree died at the hands of the volturi, and he regrets that he didn’t do more to try to save her. he carries a strong hatred for the ruling vampire coven, but also a healthy dose of fear. they killed bree for being part of the army, so who’s to say they won’t do the same to him ? 

fellow lonely nomads pls he needs company 

someone who, for whatever reason, can push through his aversion field a little more than others. maybe friends ? c:

a human who sees him lurking around the college or library or bookstore. maybe they have the same interests as him, maybe they try to befriend him, etc.

literally anything u can think of ! bring me all the plots 

[mirrorballtales]

I’m not even sure how to respond to this. This person has become more emboldened the last few months in threatening me and trying to scare me away from saying anything. I’m no longer interested in his apologies that he tells himself to absolve himself from his crimes. Now he is viewing my TikTok profile which I did not know I had to even worry about. Do you know what it’s like to check your notifications and seeing this. The panic and fear it strikes you with, the way it takes you back to everything he’s done. Yet, I say nothing, and keep my mouth shut. What do I tell people? By the way, my abuser is now harassing me, looking me up? He knows where I live. Every night I have a knife under my pillow hoping and praying I don’t go on someone else’s terms. I keep thinking he’s behind me. I’m looking over my shoulder. I’m locking doors and unlocking. Every time I’m ready to live I feel like he grabs me and tugs me back with full force. I’m surrounded both ways, clinging to the cliff waiting for some hand to reach for me and pull me up and no one does. I’m just ready to let go. Actually, maybe I look better being in people’s past. Maybe it’s better I just make it all stop and go. I’m tired of keeping score, I’m tired of playing this tug-of-war, I just want to be warm.

Past me would want me to fight right? She’d want me to fight? She’d want me to swing? Right? I keep telling myself there is happiness after them. It exists. I’ve had it. But he keeps taking it from me. All the years he’s taken from me, never enough. All I’ve done all day is throw up. I’m sick to my stomach. I feel so alone. I don’t know where to run. I feel I’m on an island all alone being consumed by the past. Terror becoming my night. I’m so sick of these lessons. Now he’s got another one, a fool. She’s taken my fucking spot. I don’t know what to do. I’m not making sense. I know I’m not. I’ve held it inside of me for weeks.

He’s got a new me by his side. And if I say nothing then what? Is her life now on me? No one teaches you what to do when they break you in a million little pieces. He took the best I had and now what is left after that? All he wants is forgiveness but I haven’t met the new me yet. And I don’t want her to give him that. He doesn’t deserve that. He is not sorry. He is not sorry for destroying me. He is not sorry for doing it. He is not sorry for throwing me on the ground. He is not sorry for the blood and bruises on my body and face. He is not sorry for gifting me violence on my fourteenth birthday. He is not sorry for ripping any semblance of dignity and humiliating me. He is not sorry for leaving me for dead and running so he isn’t caught. He isn’t sorry for blaming me for it all. He isn’t sorry for any of it. And he won’t stop.

So what do I do? Is the new girl on my conscience? He is taunting me. Telling me he’s going to have a family with her. Saying her parents are fine with her age and his. I’m losing my grip on things. I’m losing my mind. I know he’s lying but what if he’s not. I can’t allow him to hurt anyone. I can’t let him bring in a child! Do I give up my life for a stranger? Do I go to the police? Do I press charges? Do I file a suit? I’m afraid if I do this I may not come back. I’m afraid this will kill me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t be sure that I will survive this. If I do any of this I don’t know I’ll come out of the other side unscathed. I can’t. Not when I’m alone in this. I’m losing it. I know I am. Maybe I should just go. He closed his fist around my delicate soul. He shattered me. And I can’t seem to find the missing pieces. Maybe they’re not worth finding anymore. Or maybe he’s hiding them. I don’t know anymore.