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avis-writeshq · 1 year ago

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06 — untouchable

summary: “come on, come on, say that we’ll be together/”i’m caught up in you.” pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn, warnings: rated 16+ for two mentions of nakedness, short blood mention, brief mention of dead things, mostly canon compliant (s4 e23 ‘amplification’), wc: 4.3k a/n: thank you again to the lovely @astrophileous for beta-reading <3 good luck on your thesis babes MWAH SERIES MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

38 Hours Before the Phone Call – Monday, 8:42AM, BAU Office

Spencer arrives at the office with a stupidly giddy smile on his face. His cheeks are flushed as he grips a hot takeaway cup of coffee in his hands. He taps the cup idly with his fingers, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he steps out of the elevator unable to shake the smile off his face. It’s ridiculous and insane and borderline delusional but he knows it’s far from that. After all, he has a perfectly good reason as to why he is in such high spirits and that reason is you. After years of pining and psyching himself up (only to psych himself out) he managed to actually ask you out on a date. And, he reminds himself with a silly smile, he actually kissed you. And it wasn’t one of those platonic kisses, no, this was an actual kiss to the lips and he couldn’t be happier.

He thinks back to the previous night, visualising the way your cheeks grew warm and the way your lips felt against his. His own cheeks flush at the thoughts and he remembers committing that version of you to memory. How on earth are you so beautiful? Even while sleep deprived with dark bags under your eyes or unruly hair, he still thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“Pretty boy,” Derek comments in a teasing sing-songy voice as Spencer takes a sip of his coffee, trying to appear nonchalant. “Ooh, I know that look.”

Spencer chokes a little, wiping his mouth with a tissue in his bag. “What look?”

“Someone got lucky last night,” Derek responds with a grin. “It must be the hair. I heard that long hair gets all the ladies nowadays.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spencer is quick to deny, walking through the big glass doors of the office.

“Who got lucky last night?” Emily asks, poking her head out of her little stall. Her eyes flit to Spencer and she grins. “Oh… I see how it is.”

“Nothing happened last night,” Spencer says adamantly, swiping a hand over his face. “It isn’t like that. Whatever we have is good. It doesn’t need to be–” He coughs quietly as blood rushes to his ears– “to be sexual. I like her. More than physically.”

Emily coos at his confession, twisting around her desk to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a gentleman, Reid.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says through a laugh, swatting Emily’s hands away. “Being a gentleman. Some women prefer it over the whole macho act.”

“Hey, I am plenty gentleman,” Derek says swiftly, holding a finger out. “And chicks dig the macho thing.”

***

14 Hours Before the Phone Call – Tuesday, 7:09AM, BAU Office

It was supposed to be a normal morning. It was supposed to be an average Tuesday with your average, run-of-the-mill serial killer with daddy issues but instead, JJ called the entire team in the early hours of the morning, saying to get to the BAU as quickly as possible.

“Case must be local. JJ said not to bring a go-bag,” Spencer says as they enter the office.

In moments they were met with a complete arsenal of military personnel, bustling around their desks and storming throughout the office. Others were answering and sending phone calls, demanding for processes to be sped up as Hotch speaks to a group of people in his own personal office, Rossi beside him.

“What’s the army doing here?” Derek asks, his brows furrowed.

“What the hell is going on?” Emily demands, eyeing the uniformed professionals as they splay casefiles across their desks.

They all enter the conference room where JJ was waiting for them, along with a neatly dressed Asian woman with her hair tied up in a ponytail and out of her face.

“Guys, this is Dr Linda Kimura, Chief of Special Pathogens at the CDC,” JJ introduces, filling up styrofoam cups with water and placing them around the round table.

“Hello. I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” she says as she places pills on a shiny metal tray.

Spencer frowns at that. “What circumstances?”

Hotch enters the room instantly, gripping a case file in his iron fist. “We need to get started.”

“Last night, twenty-five people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after 2PM yesterday. Within 10 hours, the first victim died. It’s now just past 7AM the next day, we have twelve people dead,” JJ explains as the rest of team look through the manilla files.

“Lung failure and black lesions,” Derek murmurs thoughtfully. “Anthrax?”

Spencer flicks through the papers, scanning the tox screen. “Anthrax doesn’t kill this fast.”

“This strain does,” Kimura says, an edge of fear in her tone.

“What are we doing about potential mass targets– airports, malls, trains?” Emily asks, turning to Hotch who shakes his head.

“There’s a media blackout.”

“We’re not telling the public?”

Derek looks over at Emily. “We’d have a mass exodus.”

“The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than this last attack,” Rossi explains.

“Yeah, and if it does get out, whoever did this might go underground or destroy their samples,” Spencer says as he sifts through the papers.

“Or if they wanted attention and didn’t get it, they might attack again. Doesn’t the public have the right know that?”

“If there is another attack, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet,” Hotch says urgently. “Our best chance of protecting the public is by building a profile as quickly as we can.”

Spencer wets his bottom lip nervously, his thoughts drifting to you. You work indoors all day. You’ll be fine, you have to be. “What do we know about this strain?”

“The spores are weaponized,” Kimura explains, “reduced to a respiral ideal that attacks deep in the lungs. Odourless and invisible.”

Rossi nods, almost as if he wasn’t surprised at all upon hearing the news. “A sophisticated strain. Only a scientist would know how to do that.”

“These lesions are doubling in size in a matter of hours,” Derek points out, gesturing to the less than positive crime photos in their files.

“It’s not the lesions I’m worried about,” Kimura begins, taking an ultrasound scan of a patient’s lungs and presenting it to the team. “Its the lungs. We don’t know how to com2bat the toxins once they’re inside. And the reality is, we may lose them all.”

“The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital. Our offices will become a small command centre,” JJ tells them.

“We’ll be working with military scientists from Fort Detrick,” Hotch adds on.

“General Whitworth is coming here?” Rossi asks.

Hotch nods in the affirmative. “He’s in charge of sit containment and spore analysis. Determining what strain this is will help inform who’s responsible.”

“My team is in charge of treating all victims,” Kimura goes on to tell the team, looking at each person.

“Reid, go with Dr. Kimura to the hospital, interview the victims,” Hotch says, dishing out responsibilities. “Morgan and Prentiss, there’s a hazmat team that will accompany you to the crime scene. There’s Cipro. Everybody needs to take it before we go.”

Linda hands a small plastic container, each one having two round tablets resting inside. “We don’t know if it’s effective against this strain, but it’s something.”

Emily lets out a nervous breath as she toys with the rim of the container. “This… is really happening?

“We knew this could happen. We’ve done our homework. We’ve prepared for this. This is it,” Hotch says as reassuringly as possible before knocking his head back and taking the two Cipro tablets.

“Cent’anni,” Rossi toasts, holding the little container out. “May you live one hundred years.”

***

Everyone rushes about, gathering files and resources before the head off to complete their allocated assignments. Regardless of how much is at stake in this certain situation, Spencer feels his heart spike with anxiety. It’s against protocol, sure, but shouldn’t he call you? Tell you to take a sick day and stay at home, or to just stay indoors the entire time you’re at work. Maybe if he’s lucky he could get you into witness protection.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch says slowly, seemingly appearing out of thin air behind him.

Spencer freezes, his hands pausing as they rummage through his bag in search of his cell. “I’m not.”

“You’re not thinking?” Hotch asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know what you want to do.”

“I can’t just– I can’t just keep her in the dark, Hotch,” Spencer insists, continuing to feel for his cell phone. “She could get infected and–” His mouth runs dry at the idea and he swallows thickly. “If I can protect her, then why shouldn’t I?

Aaron sighs, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows knit together. “I know you care about her and I know you’re worried, but she isn’t on this team anymore. If we all called home and used this information to give them the advantage that other people don’t have… is that really the right thing to do?”

“Don’t give me a moral dilemma, Hotch. This isn’t a hypothetical,” Spencer counters, finally finding the little device buried at the bottom of his satchel. “When I– when the incident with Tobias Hankel happened, she never gave up on me. She went out on a limb for me. I’m returning the favour.”

Hotch is quiet for a moment before finally, “What about the guilt?”

Spencer balks. “What?”

“If she is saved because of the information you gave her… can you imagine the guilt she would feel? She’s a selfless person, Spencer, and knowing her… well, you can guess what she would do,” Aaron says, glancing back to his office where Rossi is waving him over. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. Kimura is waiting for you.”

Hotch is gone before Spencer could say anything. He huffs quietly, guilty after hearing Hotch’s words. Even though he doesn’t want to admit it, he has to accept that his boss is right. The best way to keep you safe is by finding this UnSub before he could hurt any more people. He rubs at his eyes in frustration, stalking out of the BAU offices. Hopefully you’ll forgive him.

***

“Dr. Lawrence Nichols? Yeah, I read about him. He was highly respected doctor who studied anthrax prior to the attacks in 2001,” Spencer says as he gets into the passenger seat of Derek’s SUV. He rolls up the sleeves of his dark purple shirt, brushing some sweat from his forehead. “They think that he’s behind it?”

“There was a video of him at a conference with the with the National Defense Committee. He was paranoid after the Amerithrax attacks in 2001, proposing some crazy high budget to ‘protect the people of America’,” Derek explains. “He matches the profile exactly. Prentiss and Rossi are heading to his work. Apparently he got demoted into working with influenza.”

Spencer grimaces as he stares at the overgrowing rose bushes at the front of Dr. Nichols’s house, his nose scrunching up in distaste. Do people not hire gardeners anymore? He squeezes past a few bushes to follow Derek closer to the house, hissing when his hand gets caught on one of the thorns. He shakes his hand out, a scratch already blooming on the back of his hand with small droplets ot blood already emerging.

He continues to walk into the house as Derek’s phone rings, entering the house through a glass sliding door. The whirring of the fan above him grabs his attention and he frowns. The fan is on but the door is open… someone must have left in a hurry. He takes another step forward, jolting when he hears the sound of glass being crushed under his feet. Shit.

“Reid?” Derek yells, and Spencer jumps.

“Morgan, get– get back!” Spencer yells, slamming the sliding door shut so hard that the glass shakes. “Get back! Get out of here!”

Derek frowns, tugging at the handle. ‘What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“No, don’t!”

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks again, tugging once more at the handle; Spencer is a lot stronger than he expected.

“What’s wrong?”

Spencer pushes his hair out of his face in frustration as he locks the door, turning back to his friend. “I’m sorry.”

It is in that moment that Derek’s eyes turn to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sees the white powder in the room leaking from a broken test tube with a bright yellow symbol for ‘biological hazard’.

It feels like hours before Hotch and the military arrive at the house, along with an ambulance and a hazmat team. The stench of Dr. Nichols’s dead body lingers in the air even though the air-con is blasting and the air is circulating through the room. He doesn’t even want to think about the dead animals and test subjects in the cages, his stomach churning at the mere thought. From what he could tell, the doctor was dead three days ago, meaning that he couldn’t have been the one to infect those people at the park. His head is pounding and his throat itches and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. He tells himself to relax but how can he when he very well could die in here? He knows the statistics; only 55% of those who receive aggressive treatment survive. He doesn’t like those odds.

“Hotch, I really messed up this time,” he says hoarsely into the phone, wiping the sweat off his upper lip.

“Reid, we need to get you out and to the hospital,” Hotch says firmly, and Spencer watches as he puts the call on speaker.

“What– no, I’m staying right here,” Spencer insists, frowning.

Derek interrupts swiftly, “No, you’re not, Reid.”

“I’m already exposed,” Spencer says, his voice straining as he turns back into Dr. Nichols’s makeshift lab. “It’s not gonna do me any good to stop working the case.”

General Whitworth grimaces in response. “He’s already infected. Now, if Nichols created the strain, he may have also created the cure.”

“My best chance is to stay here, see if there’s a cure, and try to figure out who killed Dr. Nichols,” Spencer insists as he searches through the lab for what seems like the millionth time.

Test tubes, files, and text books litter the lab, a flurry of papers splayed across the floor. The sight of them remind him of the first time he met you when you had ran into him on his first official day at the BAU. You were a swirling rainstorm as you practically slammed your head against his chest, the paperwork you were carrying flying into the air as you toppled over like a house of cards. In that moment, Spencer could have sworn that you were untouchable. You were like a fire, burning brighter than the sun, and he would be damned if he ever made that flame flicker away.

“Come on, Hotch, say something to him,” Derek tries again, worry laced in his tone.

Aaron hesitates as he considers his options before sighing. “He’s right. His best chase is inside. We’re gonna get a suit and mask in to you right away.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not going to do me any good. I’m already infected.” Spencer knows that if you were still part of the team that you would be scolding him about being so stubborn. Hell, you’re not even on the team anymore and you still scold him about it.

As he continues to try and search for more clues and filtering the information he finds through to Derek, his thoughts continuously drift back to you. You and your blissfully unaware state. He thinks of the way you smile and the way you felt in his arms that day. He is sure that the universe is playing tricks with him because the one moment he finally has you, you’re ripped away from him. His mind wanders back to the way your eyes lit up and the way your lips felt against his and in that moment he’s begging. He’s begging whatever higher power there is that he is part of the 55% of people who survive an anthrax attack after treatment.

“Hey, Reid,” Penelope’s voice echoes through the phone, sad and mopey. It’s unlike her, incredibly uncharacteristic and Spencer chokes out a quiet laugh.

“Reid? Wow, no, uh… no witty Garcia greeting for me?” He asks, running his fingers through his damp sweaty hair. It’s disgusting and gross and he hates it because he knows that it’s a symptom of the disease.

Penelope chuckles weakly from the other side of the line. “I can’t be my sparkly self when you are where you are.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that so instead he asks, “Garcia, do you think you can do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“I… I know I can’t call… I know I can’t call (Y/N) or my mother without, uh–” he coughs, wiping his face with the palm of his hand and feeling his clammy skin– “without alerting everyone.”

“What do you need?”

“I– uh– I need you to record a message. Two messages. One for my mother and the other for… for (Y/N). In case anything happens to me.” His voice cracks as he speaks, his hand trembling because oh God, this really could be the end. After everything he went through going to those Narcotics Anonymous meetings, getting clean, going to therapy… this is how it ends?

“Oh, nothing is gonna happen to you,” Garcia says, wholeheartedly believing it. “You’re gonna brilliantly find ut who did this and we’re gonna treat this strain.”

Spencer lets out a nervous breath. “I hope you’re right. But if you’re not, I just… I really want to make sure that they hear my voice. Both of them.”

“Okay. Just– just give me a second,” Penelope mumbles, clicking away on her keyboard.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“This– um, it’s for my mum first…” He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even. “Hi, mum. This is Spencer. I just– I just really want you to know that I love you, and– and I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.”

Penelope presses pause on that message, murmuring, “Okay. And– and for (Y/N)?”

“Is it on?” He asks quietly, coughing as the itchiness in his throat refuses to relent. “Hey, angel, it’s me, Spenc– Walter. It’s your Walter.” His voice catches in his throat as he speaks, tears slipping past his eyes as he tries to choke out the words. “If you’re getting this then something happened and I just wanted you to know that– that– that I love you. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that before but I do. I love you and I wish it didn’t turn out like this but I am– I am so glad that we had that moment.”

“Reid?”

Dr. Kimura enters the room through the sliding door, clad in a bright red hazmat suit. “Prep the victim for transfer.”

“I gotta go,” Spencer says quickly, hanging up the call and pocketing his phone.

“Dr. Reid,” Kimura says, walking over to him.

“You look nice,” he says drily, staring at the uniform. It looks very similar to an astronaut costume and if he were in any other situation, he would have started to laugh.

Kimura chuckles quietly. “I haven’t been in this outfit for a while.”

“How… how are the patients doing?” Spencer manages to ask, and suddenly it feels as if all the air is kicked out of his lungs. His head throbs with each attempt he makes to take in a breath and sweat pools at the top of his lip.

“Let’s worry about you.”

“I actually… I feel fine,” Spencer lies through gritted teeth, the muscles in his shoulders aching with each heave of his chest.

Kimura nods, her concern palpable. “Okay, if you feel any pain, I can give you something.”

In an instant, the fear of losing all the progress he has made in the past year pools to his stomach and he shakes his head adamantly, ignoring the way the room spins. “No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.”

“We can at least make you feel more comfortable.”

“I am comfortable and I don’t want to take any narcotics!” Spencer says firmly, and he can see the realisation dawn in Kimura’s eyes.

“Okay… tell me how I can help.”

“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says through heavy breaths, sucking in a mouthful of air with every sentence.

It isn’t long before the hazmat team has Spencer in a decontamination tent, the smell of sterile plastic filling his nose. They’re hosing him down behind a clear plastic curtain, Derek standing in front of him. The feeling of the cold water splashing against his back is uncomfortable, and Spencer grimaces at the feeling of his clothes sticking to his skin. It’s gross and his work shirt is growing heavy from the waterweight, sagging down on his shoulders. The anthrax isn’t helping either. It’s too hot and too cold all at once, it’s too hard to breathe and it’s like his head weighs a million pounds.

“Go help Hotch,” Spencer croaks out to Derek, shivering as they continue to spray water on his back and front.

“Hotch has plenty of people helping him,” Derek dismisses.

Spencer shakes his head and regrets it immediately, his head starting to spin. “He needs you more than I do.”

“Reid, I’m gonna see you off to the hospital.”

“I’m about to get naked so that they can scrub me down. Is that something you really want to see?” Spencer deadpans.

Derek grimaces before finally saying, “What if (Y/N) were here? Would you tell her to go?”

“(Y/N) wouldn’t mind seeing me naked.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot upwards at Spencer’s less than innocent words, immediately turning away. “We are having a conversation about this later. Take good care of him, please.”

The ambulance is stuffy and cramped, and the scrubs that he has to wear is itchy and uncomfortable. They’re menial thoughts that don’t even matter considering the severity of the situation, and Spencer wheezes out of a cough; a reminder that he might not even live to see the next day. The nasal cannula that is attached to Spencer’s nose isn’t doing much to assist him to breathe, and he coughs again.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Reid?” Kimura asks as she checks his vitals.

“My throats a little dry, but other than that I feel– I flee– feel…” He blanks. His mind knows the words but they get stuck on his tongue and he panics. It can’t end like this. He refuses for it to end like this. “Flee– fleel– I–”

Kimura nods in understanding, a sense of urgency behind her words. “Okay. Okay, you’re doing okay. Driver, faster!”

“Call–” Spencer tries again, the words spinning in his head. “Pelen– Penel… low… len…”

Call Penelope, he tries to say, the lights in the ambulance growing brighter and brighter. She needs to give (Y/N) the message, she needs to… she needs to…

All he sees is white.

***

The first thing Spencer notices when he regains consciousness is the smell of lavender and oranges overpowering the sterile scent of antibacterial wipes. It’s comforting and familiar and he wracks his brain as he tries to remember where he remembers it from. He doesn’t remember much; only getting into the ambulance and Kimura asking him questions. He shuffles around in his hospital bed, stretching his aching muscles. He forces his eyes open little by little, and he quints at the woman at the end of his hospital bed.

“(Y/N)?”

“You ass,” you respond tearfully, your voice cracking as you swat him lightly on the arm. “You refused treatment?”

He smiles a little, sitting up on the bed. “Hey, angel.”

“Don’t ‘hey angel’ me,” you sniffle, taking hold of his hand and stroking his palm with your thumb. “You scared me.”

Spencer hums softly in acknowledgement, squeezing your hand back. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Dr. Kimura said that you should be free to go in a couple of days but you need rest afterwards,” you tell him, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You owe me a date.”

“I do,” he murmurs, his cheeks flushed and a giddy smile on his face despite where he is. He looks at you, you and his oversized CalTech hoodie. The hoodie in itself is ugly; a muted grey with a half-assed logo slapped to the front and Spencer has hated it ever since he bought it with what little funds he had back in college. Yet, for some reason, he doesn’t hate it so much when you wear it. “You look beautiful.”

You roll your pretty eyes at him, moving your chair closer to him. “Liar.”

“Never,” he whispers. “Never to you.”

You smile at him again, bringing your lips to the back of his hand. “You told me you loved me. Is that true, too?”

“Love,” he corrects you quietly, “and I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

Heat rushes up your neck at his words and you beam at him, kissing his cheeks. “I love you.”

He reaches a hand out to hold the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the line from your ear to your jaw. “I love you,” he says into the space between you, before kissing you again.

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marlsswrites · 6 months ago

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Summer camp AU, part 12!!

July 12th <3

Gate - @jegulus-microfic words: 854

First part Previous part

Regulus finally let himself relax, he sat outside the cabin scanning his eyes over the soft still water, the sunrise reflecting and bouncing from the water and shining onto his face. His legs were tucked into his chest, his half steaming hot coffee on the floor at his side, he picked the cup up and cradled it in his hands, blowing on it gently and watching the steam dissolve into the crisp morning air.

He inhaled once, feeling the fresh air kissing his lungs before exhaling. It was early, unusually early for Regulus to be awake actually. He picked his phone out from his pocket, checking the time, smiling at the photo of him and Pandora on his lock screen.

5:05AM... he normally doesn't get up this early, but his head was running around and around and spiralling him into circles, so he thought he'd try and wind down outside.

After a few moments, he felt his phone buzzing in his hands. Odd, anyone who would phone him would certainly not be up right now, if they were, he should probably send help. Especially Barty, he's an actual demon before 9AM. Regulus can't say much, if anyone were to wake him up this early he'd probably insult them, hit them, and go back to sleep.

It was a random number, one he did not in fact recognise. He pressed answer reluctantly, maybe someone had changed their number, and he also was not awake enough right now to think about who it could be.

"Hello?" He chewed on his lip and let out the mumbled word into his phone.

"Reg!" The relieved and excitable voice of James rang into his ear.

"When the fuck did I give you my number?" Regulus sighed out.

He heard a hearty laugh. "I nagged Sirius to give it to me in case I couldn't find you."

James couldn't see him right now, but yet he still rolled his eyes and felt a twitch of his lips at the care the older boy gave to him, it was nice. It felt sweet, promising, it also made his heart do that fluttery thing and his hands fiddle nervously on the hem of his baggy sleeping shirt.

"On that note." James added. "Where are you? You weren't here when I woke up."

"Outside the cabin, you idiot."

Laughing, he swore he heard James release a loud breath that sounded like he'd been holding it in all morning, before the sound of the cabin door opening then the fence gate swinging open and shut sounded in his ears.

Now is when he actually became very aware that he was wearing a massive t-shirt that dropped off one shoulder and long black boxers, his hair was an absolute mess and his cheeks most definitely bitten by the cold air and flushed pink. He promptly shifted on the bench and gave a wary look to his side when he felt the warmth of a figure slump next to him with the huff of a breath.

"Hi." The brunette gave a toothy smile. "I-" He cut himself off and his eyes seemed to widen to the size of tennis balls. Regulus felt a strange wave of nerves wash over him as James just stared at him, his gaze flicking up, down, left, right, and back to Regulus eyes, his smile wobbling and his eyes glowing with something unplaceable to the raven haired boy.

"What?" He felt tiny under James' eyeline, shrinking down further into his loose shirt.

"Nothing." James shook his head, but it clearly wasn't nothing, the way his face morphed into different emotions and how his eyes grew wide and lustful, that wasn't nothing.

He gave a hard blink of his eyes, swallowing his doubts and looking back up to see James smiling at him yet again, but a concerned glint passed though his eyes.

"You look freezing." He tutted.

Regulus immediately went to protest, but he in fact was getting quite cold and the hot coffee he was holding moments ago only did so much to warm him up.

Swiftly, James took his dark jacket off, revealing a maroon jumper underneath, and he draped it over Regulus' bare pale shoulders. "There, can't have you being cold."

He should've taken it right off, shoved it in James' face, and waltzed back into the actual heat of their cabin, to preserve his feelings from being shredded to pieces when he realised James was just trying to be nice. But the coat smelt like James, pine wood and strong cologne, the warming smell of fruit tea and the soft collar that brushed against his neck. It made him feel safe, like he was in James' arms, this is the closest he would ever get to that anyway.

He purposely ignored the adoring looks he was getting from the boy next to him, even though he could feel it shooting right to his stomach and fluttering like a hundred butterflies nipping at his insides.

So who was Regulus to deny the swallowing warmth and safety of James Potters jacket, the smell and the way he drowned in it in the best way possible.

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#my black cat decided roll over my laptop when I was writing this #I think she likes jegulus #she also ended up deleting half of it SO.#marauders #jegulus #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus #jegulus microfic #sunseeker #jegulus fic #regulus x james #starchaser #writers on tumblr

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verfound · 5 months ago

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FIC: "I Have Your...Cake" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list? We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

(Rated M for Bachelorette Party-style shenanigans)

Read on Ao3

05 September 2024

Prompt 27: Opposite

The man who answered the door was the exact opposite of what Marinette had been expecting, going from the pictures.

For one thing, he wasn’t blond. For another, he wasn’t…he was…that is to say…

He had a face, for one. The pictures she had been sent for ‘reference’ were not of her client’s face.

(…but she wasn’t sure you could actually dye…where the pictures were, so again: she had thought the client was blond.)

And from the few phone calls they’d had – because most of the correspondence had been through Rose, because she didn’t normally do this sort of thing but Rose was a dear friend and she was doing her a favor – she hadn’t expected him to be so…well. Cute.

…which was an entirely unfair thought to have, because this man was getting married the next day – she was holding the baked proof that he was very much getting married the next day – and was definitely not someone that Marinette should be considering ‘cute’.

(…panty-dropping, Alya would probably say, because good Lord those eyes and shoulders and…down, girl.)

“Yes?” he asked, and if her brain had still been functioning she might think it weird that his voice sounded deeper, too. Less accented. Less manic.

The voice from the phone had bee grating at best. This voice…oh, she could spend hours listening to that voice. She wondered what her name would sound like wrapped in it. How other things would sound wrapped in it.

…she was perhaps just a little gone, which, going back to the fact that he was completely and utterly unavailable, was a big problem.

“Mademoiselle?” he asked, and she shook her head as she (mostly) came back to her senses. She was making an absolute fool of herself – she had to get it together! She straightened her back and thrust (…goddammit phrasing!) the bakery box out at him.

“I-I-I have your penis!” she actually yelped, and dear God just kill her now. There was a beat that passed between them as her words seemed to sink in, and then his eyebrows were lifting into his hairline and an adorable little flush was coloring his cheeks and Down, Girl! “I-I mean your cake! Your penis cake! The cake of your penis! For your party?”

He blinked again as realization seemed to sink in, and the flush on his cheeks grew darker as a strangled little chuckle left him. She groaned and hung her head.

“…kill me now,” she moaned. She glanced up at him, her head still bent over the box, and bit down on her lip. If she hadn’t been in the middle of dying from mortification, she might have noticed the way his eyes seemed to focus on that. “I am so sorry. That was so unprofessional, M. King. It’s just…I didn’t expect you to be so hot.”

His eyes widened again, and she almost dropped the cake. She jerked up, her back ramrod straight, and squeaked.

“I-I mean cute! Attractive! I mean you’re not – you’re taken! Engaged! Affianced!” and God, now she was rambling. Why wasn’t he stopping her? Why was he grinning like that? She groaned again and pushed the cake out a little more. “…please take this and put me out of my misery.”

“…I think I like your misery,” he chuckled, his voice sounding more than a little strangled, but he still took the cake. He winced as he glanced at the box, distinctly not opening it, and put it on a table behind the door. He turned back to her with an easy smile and folded his arms over his chest as he leaned against the frame. “And for the record. If it makes any difference. I’m not M. King.”

He glanced back at the box as she sucked in a breath, his eyebrows furrowing. His expression turned wry as he looked back at her.

“…that’s not seriously a cake of his junk, is it?” he asked. She nodded, and he grimaced. “I was really hoping he was joking about that. Bri’s gonna hate…shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“…sorry?” she squeaked, her eyes widening again. He turned back into the flat, his expression suddenly furious, but she was more than a little distracted by the way his ass looked in those jeans.

“Dingo, you jackass – you didn’t actually order strippers for your party, did you?!” he shouted, and her eyes grew even wider. Ordered what now??? When no answer came, the man’s jaw clenched. “I am not going to jail for you, asshole!”

“…um…” she coughed, and he jumped as he turned back to her – like he had completely forgotten she was there.

“…shit. Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just…Dingo – the groom – is a fucking moron. I didn’t think he’d actually ordered the stupid cake – his fiancée, Bri, told him multiple times she didn’t want it, but he kept joking about…”

There must have been some kind of expression on her face – there had to be, from the heat she could feel filling her cheeks and the way her eyes were stinging – that made him wince and look away. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, and his own blush had spread to the tips of his ears.

…he had no right to be that hot and that adorable.

“…sorry,” he said again, wincing. “That’s…that’s not actually your problem. Sorry. They…um. Fuck. They paid you, right? For the cake?”

“Y-yeah,” she said, nodding. She cleared her throat and nodded again, a bit stronger. “Yes. I was just dropping it off on my way home. I…sorry. So you’re not Dingo, then?”

“God, no,” he laughed, shaking his head. He held out his hand, his smile softening. “Luka. Luka Couffaine.”

“Oh! Juleka’s brother, right?” she asked, snapping her fingers. He lifted his eyebrows. “The musician?”

“You know Jules?” he asked. His hand was still held out awkwardly between them. She nodded.

“And Rose,” she said. “We’ve been friends since collège. I’m Marinette.”

“Oh, right! The designer!” the man – Luka – said, nodding. “They talk about you all the time. It’s nice to finally have a face to put with the name. Your parents are bakers, right? Is that how you ended up making…”

He glanced back at the box, and she giggled nervously.

“Rose and Juleka are really good friends, and I never turn down a good friend,” she said, shrugging. “…even if it makes me really uncomfortable. I’m chronically helpful.”

“Your stuff’s incredible,” Luka said. He rolled his eyes and smiled. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m almost looking forward to eating Ding’s junk now.”

She choked on a laugh, clapping her hands over her mouth, and his smile grew. When she had better gathered herself, she looked up at him with an almost giddy smile.

“…hey, are you doing anything tomorrow?” he asked. Her eyebrows lifted, and he grinned. “I’d love to…well. I’d love to buy you a coffee, but I’m kinda supposed to be in this wedding. I may have promised the groom I’d be his best man.”

She giggled at the way he rolled his eyes, and his smile grew. He dipped his head towards her.

“Care to be my plus one?” he asked, grinning. “I’m told the cake’s going to be amazing.”

She choked on another laugh. She knew it would be – her parents were making it.

“Isn’t it bad form to invite someone to a wedding for a first date?” she asked. “Besides. I’m already going to be there – I have to help the bakers set up the cake.”

“Perfect!” he said. Something moved in her periphery, and she noticed he was wiggling his fingers at her. He was still holding his hand up between them. “You have to be there. I have to be there –best man, remember? Why not be there together? I’d say I’d buy you a drink, but it’s going to be an open bar. Maybe I can buy you some cake instead.”

“…the cake’s free, too,” she laughed. His grin grew.

“Perfect,” he said. “You can buy me cake.”

He wiggled his fingers again, and she rolled her eyes as she raised a hand to clasp his. She was momentarily dazed by how…warm his hand felt around hers. Like it was made to hold hers.

“It’s a date,” he said, squeezing her hand. Her smile warmed, and she nodded. Suddenly she didn’t really care if it was bad form, asking someone to a wedding for a first date.

“I can’t wait.”

#miraculous ladybug #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #ml fic #ver fic #lbsc lukanette month 2024 #prompt: opposite #thirsty marinette dupain-cheng #meet cute #meet ugly #penis cakes #bachelorette party #rated m for penis cakes

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devillexi · 2 years ago

Text

Summertime Fun Under The Sun

Characters: Mei Mei x Big Breasted! Chubby! Fem! Reader

Tags: penetrative sex (through use of a strap-on), implied cunillingus, this is just very horny...I'm sorry....

Prompt: Quickies In The Shade

((I would like to apologize for abruptly finishing this! 😭😭 I actually had a whole 'nother direction with the ending but it was getting too long! I plan on posting a part two of this with the finished ending, but I hope you guys enjoy this! I put blood, sweat and tears into this. I just love Mei Mei so much, she's so fucking hot and awesome! 🥺🥺))

Just sliding this in for @voltage-vixen and @xxsycamore/ @kissmetwicekissmedeadly 's summer of smut 3.0 challenge!

______________

Nervous.

It was all you felt and your nerves didn't quite settle since your location was what's making you feel this way.

The beach. Always so stock full of people from all walks of life; the sun's rays bearing down on everyone as they seek comfort in the shades or make ones of their own with their beach umbrellas and tents. You couldn't help but be envious of the bathing suits worn by the ladies who walked past you. Some cute, sexy, and ones showing off more skin than you felt comfortable with.

Normally, you wouldn't have minded being at the beach, but your normal wear usually consisted of just shorts and a tank top. You sighed as your cheeks became red when you remembered how that all changed when your long-term girlfriend, Mei Mei, persuaded you to wear a bathing suit.

Feeling the heat rising from your neck to the tips of your ears, you covered your face with your hands. Rubbing your legs together unconsciously, you still remember the events from that night.

___________

"M-mei Mei, please!~"

Your cries grew raspy as you barely managed to call out her name. Your thick thighs trembled, straining as they laid open exposing your stretched out, glistening cunt. Heavy and dazed onyx eyes soaked in the sight of your flushed, pretty face as your tear drops clung to your long eyelashes. Your round, chubby cheeks so red and stained from your tears and your luscious, full lips looking oh-so-delectable and thoroughly ravished as your lipstick smeared to the side onto your cheek.

Your soft, plush body was littered with red lipstick kisses and hickies were scattered amongst them. They covered your neck and your breasts, each of your nipples hardened and sporting it's own mark. Watery eyes could make out the devious smirk on your lover's face. Her kisses and love bites traveled down to your stomach and further down to your aching pussy. Even your swollen clit that protruded past your folds wore its ruby red lipstick proudly. Mei Mei was always so through.

With a smirk, she planted her heated gaze on you, watching as your chest rose and fell. Your voluptuous breasts jiggling as you panted. Her hands held a firm grip on your hips; the girthy, thick size of her purple strap-on still settling in nicely inside of you.

Your mind was muddled from the pleasure and all you could focus on was wanting your girlfriend to move. To wreck your pretty pussy as she wants, but Mei Mei has always been such a sadistic lover. Knowing the ins and outs of your body, she tortured you endlessly with her teasing to the brink of your very own sanity.

"My bunny," she spoke, her voice husky and an octave lower than before.

Bunny, that was your nickname. She always called you her little bunny for as long you could remember, but in your fucked out mind, you could only repeat it back to her.

She chuckled.

"Won't you wear it for me, bunny?"

The grip on your hips grew tighter and your back arched when she started to rock her hips, pushing the strap-on into you. "Mei~," you moaned, hands balling the sheets into your fists.

"Answer me," she sings.

Her thrusts were climbing up to a steady pace, coaxing small moans from your lips. You try with all your might to stifle them, but your girlfriend just has a wicked way of getting them out of you.

"I'm not stopping til I hear you say yes with those pretty lips of yours."

Her hips moved faster now, fucking the strap-on harder into you. Your moans grew louder as she slammed into you over and over.

You locked eyes with your lover, her piercing, loving gaze sending shivers down your spine.

"Just say yes, bunny."

______________________

Mei Mei did lie to you that night. Even when you screamed yes over and over for her, she still pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you til she was satisfied. Though you couldn't really complain much as afterwards, you were given some much needed cuddling. But the next morning, you were not spared.

Still, as you stepped out of the changing room, you looked down at your new swimsuit, courtesy of your girlfriend. It was a cute yellow and black polka dot two-piece, where the top was more of a tube top and the bottom stretched over your stomach. It was your first time ever wearing a swimsuit. You felt a bit exposed with your frilly tube top barely holding on to the ample size of your chest. With no straps to hold them, you felt that your chest might become exposed at any moment.

Regardless, since Mei Mei spent time picking this out for you, you had to wear it. If only to see a smile on her face.

_________________

"Make sure you find a good spot for us. I don't want anyone disturbing my bunny and I."

While you were off changing in the rooms, Mei Mei stayed behind to order her people to find the perfect place to sit on the beach. Off to the side, she had an assistant hold up an umbrella for her, shielding her away from the sun. She eyed the men in front of her from behind her tinted sunglasses. The men, namely her bodyguards, saluted her as they shouted, "Yes, ma'am!"

"And make sure to hurry. The moment she leaves the changing rooms, there better be a place set up for us."

The men nodded and set off to complete her instructions with the materials gathered in their bulking arms. Mei Mei saw them off before glancing at her assistance and the umbrella in their hand. "Hand it to me and you can be dismissed," she said, holding out her palm. The assistant, a middle-aged woman with dirty blond hair and wooden-brimmed glasses, nodded. She turned the umbrella over to her mistress and gracefully exited, presumably on to her next task.

Mei Mei took off her glasses and could see in the distance the spot her men had picked out and were now setting up. It was surrounded by palm trees, which provided an ample amount of shade. It was perfect as they set up the tent which had no roof, making the long branches and vast leaves act as the perfect cover. She smiled as she looked on. The only thing they had left to set up was the curtain which would provide all the privacy she could ever ask for.

With the men now finished, she dismissed them to their posts, away from her set-up but still nearby. She could never truly go without them, but the least they could do was not interfere with her time with her precious lover.

Now all you had to do was show up in your swimsuit. She anxiously awaited your arrival, desperately wanting to see how you looked in it. She did want to accompany you in the rooms the city provided on the beach, but you turned her away and left her with the task of finding a place for the both of you.

Mei Mei chuckles, wondering if you had caught on to her devious plan of what she would do the moment you started undressing in front of her. It didn't matter in the end, however, since now she can do as she pleases once you arrive. She simply couldn't wait til she could have you on your back on the enormous blanket with the curtains closed.

"Oh dear," she muttered.

She could feel the heat rising. A rambunctious fire alighting in her belly, coursing downward as her folds became slick with her own juices.

She really wishes you could hurry up. Mei Mei had absolutely no intention of staying on the beach, under its abhorrent sun and merciless rays, any longer.

______________

You walked arm in arm with one of Mei Mei's bodyguards who came to escort you from the changing rooms. It was a bit embarrassing having to be escorted since he was holding such a huge sign with your name scribbled across, and people were just watching him, waiting for the mysterious lady who needed a huge, hulking bodyguard. Your face was so red from all the long, and possibly envious, stares.

"Please tell Mei Mei to not do this again," you sighed. The bodyguard, whose name escaped you at the moment, nodded.

"Duly noted, miss."

Walking along the sandy trail, you happened to notice how the most populated areas of the beach started to become less populated. It made you wonder on where the spot was. Did Mei Mei really travel this far on the beach to find place on the beach?

Was it so crowded that there wasn't a spot nearby?

The guard stopped in his tracks, making you halt in your steps too and brought you out of your thoughts.

"Hm?"

He glanced at you and then pointed with his eyes. You followed his gaze and your jaw dropped.

Sitting on the outside of the tent in her laid back Adirondack, Mei Mei sipped from her insulated tumblr. The moment she saw you, she started waving. Her silver hair was loose and her sunglasses were pulled down her nose. But that wasn't what grabbed your attention the most.

It was the giant fucking tent she had placed outside! It looked like a mini house with no roof. Inside you could see a small, round table with a cooler full of ice and bottles of juice and alcoholic beverages next to it; there was another chair, presumably yours, with a towel laid across it, and all of it laid on top of a large blanket to keep away the sand.

It...was far too grand for a day out on the beach.

You were shocked and turned to the bodyguard for some kind of reaction, but he was neutral as always. They were all like that.

You groaned, letting go of the man's arm. You watched as he slinked off to his post and went to join your girlfriend. Well, more like stormed over cause you were sure going to give her a piece of your mind for going this far! Like who was gonna clean all this up when it was time to leave!?

Mei Mei smiled and sat up in her lounge chair.

"Bunny, you look beautiful," her compliment stopped you in your tracks, your cheeks becoming a light shade of pink.

"Is it comfortable? You didn't have a hard time putting it on?" She bombarded you with questions, making you momentarily forget your anger. You grew flustered with trying to answer. Mei Mei, taking note of this, simply laughed and gazed upon you with affection and love in her eyes.

"I always knew my bunny would look so cute in whatever I picked out for her."

You swallowed, swayed by her words that you knew weren't lies. Mei Mei had always treated you like this and you still never knew how to deal with it. When you looked at her, you noticed how attractive she looked in her bathing suit, a dark navy two-piece where the top was tied around her neck, showing off her pale shoulders. There was a keyhole as well, making you stare at her cleavage unconsciously as you thought it was a pretty cool design.

However, Mei Mei took your staring as something other than innocent. She let a smirk spread across her ruby lips and her eyes narrowed mischievously.

"Does my bunny like what she sees?"

Her teasing voice tickled your ears and you realized you had been staring. Your face exploded in a sea of redness.

"N-n-no, no, no! I didn't mean-," you stuttered but were swiftly cut off as soft lips pressed gently onto yours. Caught off guard, you gasped, but that gave Mei Mei the opportunity to slip her tongue inside.

Mei Mei couldn't get enough of the taste of you. She hungered for more as she deepened the kiss. You were slowly getting dizzy; your mind gradually becoming fuzzy as the heat, once dull, dialed up to a roaring flame. It spread throughout your body and you craved your girlfriend's touch.

However, feeling the grains of sand underneath your feet brought you back to reality.

Gently but firmly, you grabbed Mei Mei's shoulders and pulled yourself away, keeping her at arm's length. You were panting, body still hot and wanting.

"Bunny?"

You looked up and saw your girlfriend licking her lips, but her stare shook you. Her dark eyes looked intense and became heavy. Even when she called your name, your nickname, her voice lowered an octave, telling you she wanted you.

"We-we can't," your voice trembled with hesitation.

"And why not?'

Her hands wrapped around your wrists, pulling them off her shoulders.

"We're in public! People might see if we do it here."

Mei Mei laughed. "Is that what you're worried about?"

Her laugh made your ears red. It was a wonderful sound, but this was a serious matter. You didn't want people to see you and Mei Mei basically ready to tear each other's clothes off. Though the appeal and temptation of outdoor sex did linger in your head far longer than you wanted it to.

"My bunny, why do you think I chose this part of the beach specifically? Look around you."

Raising an eyebrow, you were confused but did as she said. Though nothing caught your eye at first, it hit you eventually when you noticed that there were plenty of tents like Mei Mei and yours. However, they were few in number and spaced quite a distance away. And those who did not have tents were far closer to the shoreline, so in essence, it was like you were on a private part of the beach.

Wait...were you?

"Mei, is this a private beach?"

Mei Mei smiled and kissed your cheek, taking note of the small sound you made when she did. "That's right, bunny. So, are you still apprehensive now?"

A pout formed on your lips. She planned this, she planned this so well! Played you like a fiddle, but you couldn't be mad at her. Though you did have some complaints, the heat between your legs told you not to voice them and instead to enjoy the moment.

You then gave your girlfriend a smile of your own and shook your head. "No, it's fine, but let's make it quick. I do want to enjoy the beach with you, honey."

Mei Mei's eyebrows shot up and she gave a sultry smile. You only ever called her "honey" when you were really in the mood.

"Oh, bunny, this will no longer be a quick affair."

As soon as the curtains drew close, you were stripped of your bathing suit and soon enough, Mei Mei had you moaning her name for no one to hear as all were too preoccupied enjoying the beach and spending time with friends and family. True to her word, it wasn't quick. Mei Mei took her time tasting, devouring, and savoring you until you were left sobbing on your lounge chair. She left you completely exhausted and in the end, she got what she wanted. As she piled in the car with you, happy as a clam while you were tired and wrapped in a beach towel, she pulled you close and kissed you.

"How about a round two when we get home?"

You only groaned in response.

#summer of smut content creation challenge #summer of smut 3.0 #jujutsu kaisen #mei mei jjk #mei mei #jjk smut #mei mei x reader #summer of smut

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hannahhasnofriends · 4 years ago

Text

two people one bed | dream

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

summary: famous bed sharing trope!

pairing: dream x reader

warnings: swearing, fluff :)

word count: 1.7k

a/n: this fic was weird to write bc i normally write that the character calls him clay but with the setting it didn't seem right lmao – also psa, i have very little knowledge about constellations but i thought it was cute so i left it in lol

many members from the dsmp decided to take a road trip together (yes they clowned on dream the whole time)

it was a week long trip and it was finally the last day! you'd went cross country, stopping at a few different airbnbs along the way

and at this point, you were kind of over it😐don't get me wrong, it'd been an amazing trip, but you'd had little to no alone time in a week and you were just relieved to be going home after this

until you saw the last house, where someone had to share a bed.... and you and dream had just happened to pull out the two shortest straws…

‘Damn it.’ You mentally rolled your eyes, of course you’d end up the one to share a bed on the last day. You’d been driving all day and considering it was only one night, you had no mental energy to argue over sharing. Dream didn’t even seem phased at the fact, honestly you almost felt bad about how annoyed you were with everyone with how nice he’d been about it all. But he was always like this, he was always kind to you.

That was until you rolled over for the hundredth time that night. The space between the pillow wall you'd built and the edge of the bed was seeming to get smaller and smaller as the night went on. Even though the air was thick in the room, your feet were cold from Dream hogging the blanket and the bed would shake every few minutes from his constant movement. You could tell he was awake even though he was staying silent, and you tried your hardest not to let out an annoyed huff.

Finally, he shifted to peer over the pillow wall. In the dark you could still make out his green eyes and fluffy hair.

"You awake?" He whispered. You groaned internally, literally why does this man want to have a conversation now?

"No."

"Oh come on now, you can't say that and be asleep. I cant't sleep. We should do something." He shifted again so his forearms were leaning against the wall, basically destroying it.

"We are doing something. It's called trying to sleep so we can wake up at a good hour and go home." You sighed, screwing your eyes shut.

"It's only like 1 in the morning, we have plenty of time to sleep. Come on.. please, it'll be fun." Whatever, fine, maybe he'll actually calm the fuck down after this.

"Fine. What the hell can we even do right now." You opened your eyes up again, staring at the ceiling.

"We can go for a drive?" You can hear the smile in his voice. This man's love for driving was absurd.

"Uh how about no? We've literally been in the car all day and I'd rather not go back until we have to." You finally turned to face him, he wore a lopsided grin and a crooked pajama shirt. Cute.

"Fine, fine. How about we just go for a walk, yeah?" You grumbled, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and grabbing the hoodie you left on the floor. No way in hell were you changing for this, it was bad enough you were even indulging in it.

“Alright,” He grinned in your direction, slipping a pair of shoes on. “We can walk to that clearing with the little pond we saw on our way here, it's not far."

"That's fine but can we please not be out forever? I'm serious about getting sleep." You recalled the place he was talking about, it was pretty over there. Plus, you were pretty sure you could see the stars tonight.

Dream hummed, "Yeah, yeah grumpy. Let's go and be quiet, I don't want to wake anyone."

"Didn't seem to mind waking me up." You rolled your eyes, the audacity.

"Not my fault you got stuck sharing with me." He elbowed your side lightly.

You decided to keep quiet after that, slipping out of the airbnb. It wasn't cold, but there was enough chill to make goosebumps rise on your skin.

The walk there was silent, both of you just taking in the scenery. Your mind was replaying all your favorite moments from the past week, sure you were tired and ready to sleep in your own bed, but you were grateful for the people around you and how happy you'd been the past 6 days. Dream had invited you to come along almost last minute compared to everyone else. He had messaged you one night and told you he was paying for everything and would be happy if you came, and who could say no to that?

"What? What is it?" Dream had his eyes on you as you came to a stop, reaching your destination. "What's with the smile, I thought you were grumpy."

"Shut up. I'm just thinking about the past week. I had a really good time, I'm really glad I came, thank you for inviting me." You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed put.

Dream hummed, "Me too. Honestly I thought you were gonna say no when I asked you." He chuckled as his arm raised to the back of neck, scratching slightly.

"Really? What makes you say that?" Your nose scrunched slightly, you guys had always had a good relationship, you always enjoyed hanging out with him.

"I don't know! I guess I thought you wouldn't want to spend that much time with me." He was smiling, but you could tell he was being serious.

You frowned, "I'd never say no to something like this. I know I'm 'grumpy' or whatever but I seriously like spending time with you, all of you."

"Thanks, I like spending time with you too." He turned to face you, but you tilted your head up, getting a good look at the stars. Your heart softened at his words, he really was a good man.

There was a moment of silence before you spoke up again, "Do you know any constellations?"

"Uh, I can find Leo probably." His head tilted up to match yours and you snorted.

"Of course you can." You smiled and shook your head, typical Leos.

"Oh, there it is, here look." His finger pointed up at the sky, your eyes following where it led.

"There?" You asked, raising your own finger. Dream shifted behind you, close enough to feel his breath on your neck. He hooked his hand on yours and moved your finger up slightly, "Here." He murmured. His skin was soft against yours, you felt his heartbeat on your back and you could smell his aroma.

Neither of you moved, you could feel him turn his head to look at you. Your cheeks heated and you slowly lowered both your hands. You tilted your head to meet his eyes, your noses were barely touching. The beating in your chest grew faster and your mind whirled as you saw him lean in, just so slightly.

You pulled away and turned around quickly, "We should get back." You cleared your throat. Your palms were still sweating, but for a second your thoughts went blank.

"Um, yeah sure." He shoved his hands in his pockets and started his way back to the airbnb. You stood there for a moment before following after him.

What the actual fuck just happened. You were going to kiss him? Or was he going to kiss you? None of that even matters since you'd just rejected him. You cursed yourself as you kept trudging on.

This whole thing was a hot mess, it wasn't like you didn't like him, it was just you'd never thought about it before. Sure, you'd flirt with him in call or make dumb suggestive jokes, but you'd always assure yourself there was nothing underlying there. They were just jokes.

But now you couldn't stop thinking about it, his soft skin against yours, his heartbeat, the way his eyes looked so intensely into your own. Your brain kept repeating it over and over again, it made you sick.

By the time you reached the airbnb again, you began to hate how you yearned to be touched by him again. That, ok fine, you did want him to kiss you but you chickened out. He didn't help by holding the door open for you when sneaking back inside. You mumbled a thanks, not daring to look at him. You could still feel him behind you as you tiptoed back to your room, which you just conveniently forgot you had to share.

You got situated as fast as you could, climbing back into the bed, holding your breath as you went. You waited to feel the dip in the bed signally him coming to lay next to you. When it didn't come, you peeked at his side, he stood there gathering a pillow and his phone before turning to leave. Your heartbeat sped up again.

"Clay," You sat up before you could stop yourself. "Wait, can- can you stay. Please." Your voice wobbled, but the moments back at the clearing kept playing again and you couldn't just sit there anymore.

He turned around shifting his feet, "Yeah, yeah sure." His eyes seemed to soften at the expression on your face.

Your hand swiped at the pillow wall, this time completely dismantling it and you lied back down. You felt the weight shift as he settled next to you, your breath was still shaky. He lied down facing you, eyes searching your face.

"Hi." You whisper, nerves come rushing back now that he's here again.

"Hi." He chuckles and smiles softly. His eyes are still searching your face, he looks uncertain.

"I– Well I–"

"Listen, don't worry about it. I was dumb I don't even know what I was thinking. We can just forget it." He interrupts you, his eyes darting down and cheeks flushing.

"That's not what I was gonna say." You faltered. He stares quizzically, silently asking you to continue. "Well I-I first wanted to apologize, I was a dick back there. And um.."

The words taper off, lost. You feel his gaze bore into your face, he tentatively raised his arm from inside the covers, hooking your chin with a finger.

"It's ok." He whispers affirmatively. The consequences are instant, your nerves slow and you can only focus on how close he is. His eyes find yours, and he no longer seems uncertain. "Can I kiss you?"

You can only nod, so sure of your decision.

And he does.

#dreamwastaken x reader #dream team #dreamwastaken smut #dreamwastaken #dreamnotfound #dream x reader #dream fluff #dream smut #dream smp #dsmp fluff #dream imagine #dream x y/n #dream x you #dreamwastaken fluff

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rens-garden · 4 years ago

Text

-arcade date-

nsfw, izuku midoriya x top m!reader

warnings : semi public, degradation, bathroom

"haha, yes! i won again!" izuku exclaimed next to me.

right now we were on a date at an arcade, and he had been winning a lot. I'm actually really good at arcade games, but right now my eyes were on his adorable face, not the game screen. the way he smiled so brightly with a little blush on his cheeks everytime he beat me felt way better to me than winning some game could. he looked at me with a smile still on his face.

"hey y/n, you weren't even paying attention to the game were you" he said with a playful pout. god, my heart. i pinched his cheeks and smiled, and his face grew red. "i'm sorry cutie. i was too busy staring at your adorable face." after i finished the sentence he became even more red and started stuttering over his words.

"u-um anways, h-haha! let's go um play that game over there!" he grabbed my hand and looked away, probably to hide his blush. so cute. he ended up dragging me to the basketball games where you try to get as many balls into the hoops as possible. he became competitive and wanted to see who between us could get more in the hoops. i took my place at the basketball game next to him and we popped in our tokens.

30 seconds later, i won 13 to 6. i chuckled at how frazzled he seemed. he was a bit of a sore loser, but it was cute to see him try to come up with excuses as to how he lost and then pout when he couldn't come up with something reasonable. i took a step towards him and ruffled his hair, something i loved doing because his hair was so fluffy and soft. his face was turning red more by the second and i felt the urge to keep that blush on his face.

a part of me wanted to see that red face in ecstacy, but i shook those thoughts away.

"why don't i show you how to properly throw them, hm?" i said to him with an innocent smile while staring into his beautiful green eyes. "ah, uhm, sure!" he said, looking down at his shoes. i wanted to see his eyes again, so i lifted his chin with my pointer finger and slowly went in for a kiss. normally he would've accepted, but he was nervous with pda, so he blocked my mouth with his hand with a flustered expression.

"aahhhh! y/n!! w-what are you d-doing !? we're in public!" he frantically looked around and i felt a pang of guilt so i cupped his cheeks after he lifted his hand from my mouth. "i'm sorry, izuku. you were just so cute, i couldn't help but want to kiss you." his eyes were staring back into mine, and he responded, "it's o-okay... you just caught me off guard. i-i want you to kiss me- j-just wait until we're in private" the look on his face was so precious, so i slid my hand down to his hand and squeezed it.

"okay, now let me teach you how to properly play this game." i laughed, and he nodded in response. i popped a couple more tokens into his machine, and stood right behind him. he grabbed one of the basketballs and i held the outside of his hands, showing him the proper stance and telling him to throw it. it landed right in the net, and he excitedly cheered with a little jump. when i stood behind him i thought nothing of how close i was, but when he cheered, his ass had rubbed against my crotch a bit, and i had to bite my lip to hold back any noise. i was staring at the back of his neck when he snapped me out of my daze by asking me to help him for the next one too. i coughed and nodded, reaching to hold his hands again. now that i was getting a hard on, i was so much more aware of every spot we touched and how much i wanted to touch him more. right before he threw the ball, i blew my hot breath on the side of his neck, which made him tremble and miss.

"y-y/n? what- what was t-that for- i mis-" he was cut off when i pressed my half hard on into the back of his ass, making his breath hitch.

"sorry cutie, but you did this to me, and it would be great if you could take responsibility for it." i whispered into his ear. i felt him shiver under my touch, and i could see the blush on his cheek from the side. "but y/n- w-we're in the arcade- a-and anyone c-could see-" i was discreetly grinding my crotch into his ass, and he was trying his best not to let out a moan.

"then why don't we go to the bathroom? careful though, if you look so adorably ruined so soon, someone might catch on." he was biting his lip and nodded in response.

i grabbed his wrist and led him to the bathroom. i checked all of the stalls for people and pulled him into the last stall when i confirmed we were alone. i lightly shoved him against the stall wall, and pushed my lips against his. There wasn't a hint of defiance in his body language and i loved it. i grinded my crotch against his and shoved my tongue in his mouth at the same time, making him moan around my tongue. i could feel my pants tightening with every movement. i put my hand under his shirt and massaged his love handles that i loved so much. he draped his arms over my shoulders and around my neck for support as i grinded faster. I pulled away from his mouth to breathe and there was a string of saliva connecting our mouths. Deku whined beneath me.

"y/n.. m-more- please-" he begged with a red face and tears of pleasure welling up in his eyes. he looked so beautiful. i nodded slowly and slid my hand around his waist towards his ass. i kneaded his ass cheek making him whine under me.

"i love the sounds you make, sugar. you sound so wrecked and cute." i whispered lowly into his ear, making him shudder. i wanted to tease him more, see more of his cute little wrecked face. without warning i slipped a finger into his hole and he moaned loudly. i cut him off with a kiss, hushing him.

"shh, baby, or someone will hear your beautiful sounds." i started moving my finger in and out, and eventually put in a second one. i looked down at his face to see him biting his lip with his eyes shut closed. his face was flushed red, and even with him biting it i could see his lip quivering. my hard on was already making my pants tight, but my dick just got even harder the more i saw his adorable face. i shoved my hard on against his again, and grinded even harder than i had before.

"w-wait- it feels too- too good, y/n-! if you- t-touch both my ass and d-dick i w-won't be able t-to stay quiet-" he said between breaths, yet i could feel him grinding back.

"you need to stop saying such cute things and making such lewd faces or you're going to make me want to make you cry out my name," i said, "and it would be a shame for someone to find us and stop us." i slid in a third finger, and started spreading him open more.

"i-i- can't help it! it feels s-so intense- b-but so g-good-" he put his head in the crook of my neck and moaned into it. shit, i'm actually going to lose it. "sorry izuku, but i need to put it in right now or i might explode." i turned him around hastily and undid his belt, letting his pants and underwear pool at his ankles. he held his hands against the wall of the stall and stuck his ass out, making me groan at the sight.

"p-please- put it in- f-fuck my ass- i- i want it so bad-" he pleaded, and i lost it. i thrusted into him all at once, making him cry out a little, but i turned his head towards me and kissed him, making his moans muffled with my mouth. i waited until he pulled his lips away and said it was okay to move before pulling out slowly and thrusting in fast, and doing this a few times before he whimpered.

"p-please- ah- faster- i-if you go so s-slow i won't b-be able to handle it..!" the way his moans sounded made my dick throb against his walls and he clenched around me in response. fuck. i was so close to moaning so i bit down on his right ear lobe and flicked my tongue over it, and i felt him tremble against my chest. i pounded into his hole faster and he only clenched tighter. i rested my chin on his shoulder as i kept my pace and groaned in his ear.

"ugh, fuck.. izuku, you're so damn beautiful. i love you so much.." i couldn't help but tell him what i was thinking. i knew that i had to let him know how incredible i thought he was.

"ah! i- i love y-you too! s-so mu- ah! so much!" he cried out with every harsh thrust. after a minute or so, he reached out with a shaky hand and held my hip.

"h-hold on.." he said timidly, and i immediately stopped and put my hand on his cheek.

"i'm sorry, was it too much? are you okay?-" i almost started rambling but then he cut me off with a kiss.

"I'm m-more than okay.. i want t-to ride you, y/n.." his voice was shaky and sounded so shy and ruined, and i felt my heart skip a beat.

i smiled and gave him a loving kiss before sitting on the toilet and pulling him on my lap. we were facing each other, and his hot breath was brushing against my chest. he lifted himself up and i spoke up.

"do you want some help, angel?" i rested my hands on his waist, prepared to help if he said yes.

"n-no, i want to do it m-myself.. i want t-to make you feel good.." he said as he sunk down onto my cock and cried out. my breath hitched in my throat and i muttered a fuck under my breath. this new position felt so different in the best way possible. he put one hand on my shoulder and the other in my hair, then raised his hips and sank back down again. i groaned, and he shakily continued. i ran my eyes over him and how his body looked in this moment. his face was scrunched up with his eyebrows knotted, his eyes fazed over with lust and filled with tears of pleasure and drool was falling down his chin. his expression was the epitome of lewd, and it sent shivers down my spine.

"Izuku~ have i ever told you how beautiful you are when you're pleasuring yourself on my cock like a little slut?" i asked with a smirk on my face, and i felt him clench around me at the degrading term. i chuckled inwardly at this.

"oh.. did you like that, slut? did you like me calling you out for being the dirty whore that you are?"

i felt his breathing quicken against my chest and i could tell from the look in his eyes that he was close to cumming. as much as i wanted to make him feel good, i also wanted to hear him desperate for more. i put my hands on his waist when he landed at the base of my cock and held his hips down. he held himself upright by resting his hands against my chest.

"no- y/n..! p-please.. let go.. let me continue! i want more- please.. please-" his pleas were too angelic, and i decided to let him continue and more. i stopped pressing his hips down and just rested my hands firmly on his waist. izuku took notice of the loss of pressure to keep him down and let out a string of tiny 'thank you's before continuing to bounce on my cock. he was probably expecting me to sit back and let him ride me until we came, but i wasn't about to let him have all the control.

using the hands i had on his waist i helped lift him and down, while also thrusting up into him harshly. izuku cried out in surprise, but i quickly took one of his hands and shoved it over his mouth before continuing with the rough pace. he made tiny cries at every deep thrust into him, which only encouraged me to keep fucking him harder.

"ah! p-please- please more- i'm gonna cum- please m-make me cum-"

i wrapped my fingers around his flushed slender cock and only pumped it twice before izuku's cum spurted across both of our chests. i thrusted into him a few more times before following him in climax and filling him with my cum. izuku became limp in my arms and rested his head in the crook of my neck while breathing heavily.

after a few moments of collecting our breaths, i slowly lifted his chin with my left hand and ran my right finger through his cum and licked it off, my eyes never leaving his.

"tasty."

izuku quickly returned to his usual nervous self and his face grew red after realizing what i had just done.

"y-y/n! w-why would you d-do that!" he whisper scolded me and i chuckled and pulled him into my arms again. "y/n- we should clean up and go- w-what if someone heard us! oh god why did we do that!? what if-" i knew he was about to go into one of his infamous rants, so i quickly shut him up with a kiss.

"it's fine, angel. the arcade games are too loud out there for us to be heard by anyone. but sure, we can go home," a smirk made it's way across my face. "i wouldn't mind a round two when we get home though. you know i love when you can be as loud as you want." i muttered into his ear, and his face grew even more red as he nuzzled deeper into my chest.

"st-stupid y/n."

#bnha x male reader #bnha #my hero academia #top male reader #seme male reader #bnha izuku #izuku x reader #izuku midoriya #bnha deku #deku x reader #bnha smut #bnha lemon

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

Text

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

Text

hematoma of the heart

Octoberfest 9: Wound reveal (whumptober #30)

Hitting the tree is more surprising than painful. A strange shock goes through Jaskier’s entire body when it happens, a litany of unspoken no no no through him as his side slams into the wood and he topples to the ground. For a moment he can’t see, can barely even think, just feeling a dizzying sense of wrongness that makes his skin buzz with anxiety.

Then, finally, the pain does come to him, bursting from his ribs. If his breath hadn’t already been crushed from his lungs, he would have wheezed at the intensity of it. He lies there for a long moment, curled into a protective ball and trying to get his chest to expand beyond the jagged feeling in his ribs. Through bleary eyes, he can see that Geralt is still fighting the fiend, twisting and rolling deftly around it. That’s good, Jaskier thinks. Gives him some time to sort this out.

The fiend hadn’t even really been paying him any mind, which was almost more embarrassing. Jaskier had gotten in the way, a bit, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that the fight stumbled its way so close to his hiding spot. Normally Geralt would never allow Jaskier to tag along to a fight this dangerous, but as usual trouble found them. Geralt had picked up the smell of the fiend on the breeze, and the noble bastard hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. His stubborn bravery and selflessness is one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the man, but at this exact moment he finds himself wishing that, for once, they’d just kept out of it.

After a long moment of lying still and trying to gather his wits, Jaskier slowly sits up. He leans his back against the offending tree and tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to draw the fiend’s attention or break Geralt’s stride. Mentally he takes inventory. Toes and fingers wriggle when he tests them, so that’s good. No pain in his neck, though it radiates out from his left side and across his back like a sunburst. When he sticks a hand against his shirt he doesn’t feel the wet, tacky sensation of blood, so aside from a few abrasions it looks like he’s escaped with his skin intact.

Jaskier knows his ribs are bruised, maybe even slightly broken, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s sword descends into the neck of the fiend, a hot spray of blood splashing across the ground and Geralt’s face. The second the beast falls to the ground, Geralt looks up and finds Jaskier’s gaze, his own eyes wild.

Jaskier realizes two things at once. One: Geralt is going to be livid if Jaskier was hurt during a fight, and there’s a very great chance that it will make him not want to take Jaskier on hunts in the future. He’ll say that Jaskier is at risk and is a risk himself, likely to cause Geralt to get distracted and wind up with one of them dead. Never mind that Geralt often needs help after a hard fight, might not be able to make it back on his own or just needs a hand patching up the worst of his wounds. Never mind that Jaskier hates being left behind, hates sitting in a cold, empty camp or inn waiting to see if Geralt will come back this time. Never mind that Jaskier’s entire supposed reason for being here is to get first hand experience of what monster hunting is really like, even if that maybe isn’t so much the reason he’s so dedicated to the Path anymore.

And two: Geralt will blame himself.

Jaskier decides, in the span of a second, that he’s not going to say anything. It’s not so bad, after all. How hard could it be to keep a few bruised ribs to himself?

In the time it takes for him to determine this course of action, Geralt is upon him. He doesn’t touch - Jaskier touches Geralt. Geralt does not touch back, unless it’s to manhandle Jaskier out of danger. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about why this is. Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense but unreadable as always, and Jaskier takes a steadying breath that makes his ribs ache.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost more of a grunt than a name. He’s only breathing a bit more heavily than normal, as if he’d just been on a light morning jog. “You alright?”

Jaskier nods, forcing himself to climb unsteadily to his feet. The movement is agony, his back screaming as his muscles shift and stretch. He bites his cheek, forcing himself not to gasp or wince. The pain isn’t sharp, just pulsing, which is a good sign. He thinks. “All accounted for,” he says to Geralt, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too strained.

With another human, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d have been able to get away with it. No one would be able to get thrown against a tree with such force and pop back up perfectly alright. But Geralt isn’t human, and over the years of traveling together, Jaskier has realized that Geralt knows fuck all about how much humans can withstand. He is both terrified of their fragility and entirely unaware of their limits. He grew up around witchers and has never stuck around any human beings long enough to figure out what really could hurt them. Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that maybe Geralt doesn’t touch him because he’s afraid Jaskier will break. But then Jaskier falls from a horse or gets punched in the jaw or stumbles over the side of a small ravine and Geralt will act surprised when Jaskier’s ankle is twisted or his face is bruised. The witcher just has no idea what will actually cause damage and what Jaskier can walk away from.

So Jaskier plasters on his most convincing court mask and gives Geralt a winning smile, and he knows he’s won when Geralt gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaskier watches his shoulders drop ever so slightly, his expression loosening just a fraction. Jaskier drinks up Geralt’s worry like a man drowning of thirst, but he’s still relieved when Geralt turns back towards the fiend. If Geralt knew he was really hurt, his tender concern over Jaskier’s well being would morph into guilt and anger, and that’s the last thing Jaskier wants. So he forces himself to follow after Geralt, and he doesn’t even limp.

Jaskier does not limp as they set up camp that night, or as he follows Geralt to town the next day, or over the course of the next week on the road. It’s probably making the healing process longer than it needs to be, he knows, but he’s in too deep now to back down. And if he winces occasionally when he’s getting up in the morning, stiff and sore and aching, or if he sucks in a breath to hide a yelp when someone brushes past his wounded shoulder in an inn, Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier changes when Geralt leaves for breakfast or to take a piss or to bathe and he thinks he does an okay job, overall, of hiding it. It hurts in another way, deep in his gut, that Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want him to say anything, doesn’t want him to know, but in another way he does. He really does. He wants Geralt to find out and be upset because he cares about Jaskier, cares about his well being and whether he’s in pain. He wants the full force of those golden eyes on him with total attention, those broad hands running across his flank to search for damage. Jaskier wants.

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down. Or maybe he’s just healing nicely, and so for a few hours Jaskier just… forgets. They’re in a tavern, stopped in a small town a week and a half away from the fiend encounter, and Jaskier is a bit drunk. He’s been playing, for the first time since he was thrown into that tree, and it felt so good he got a bit lost in it. The crowd was small but invested, lively and eager for entertainment, and Jaskier had been passed more than a couple of tankards. Geralt had watched it all unfold with mild amusement, matching Jaskier cup for cup but barely tipsy by the end of the night. Jaskier had stumbled up the stairs with Geralt close on his heels, likely making sure he didn’t tumble back down the steps. He isn’t that drunk, truly. Barely wobbling as he’d made his way into the room. But as he tugs off his boots now and tosses aside his doublet, he’s drunk enough that he forgets, for the first time in a week, that he’s got something to hide. He turns away from Geralt and unbuttons his shirt, yawning around some garbled sentence about how many ales he’s had. The fabric has barely left his shoulders when he hears Geralt make a strangled sound, and turns to find himself nose to nose with the witcher.

“Uh,” he says, articulately, and hisses as Geralt’s fingers come up to prod his side. Oh, right. Fuck. He’d been doing so well.

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asks, and his voice comes out as a low, warning growl that Jaskier feels in his toes. It’s threatening, he reprimands himself. Geralt is scary when he’s mad. Not hot. Scary. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier snaps back to the moment.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, too quickly. He’s trying to pull his shirt back up to cover up the canvas of blue-purple-yellow that’s scattered across his ribs and shoulder, but Geralt’s hands are in the way. He must be truly surprised, to break his own rules about personal space like this. “I fell, it looks worse than it is. Nothing to be concerned about, truly, I don’t even think my ribs took too much damage -”

“When?” Geralt says. His tone and his hands are demanding, pulling Jaskier’s arm up away from his body so Geralt can get a closer look. Jaskier feels himself flush under his touch, and he’s annoyed at himself for it.

“Uh, a - a week ago? Around then? It’s been a few days.”

Geralt looks away from the bruises, his eyebrows pinched together. His golden eyes are intense, searching Jaskier’s face for a lie. There’s a moment of quiet between them, Geralt thinking with his hand spread across Jaskier’s ribs, and then his face softens with surprise. “The fiend hunt,” he says, and then his face shutters into that expression, furious and guilty, that Jaskier was trying to avoid this whole damn time.

“I was fine,” he tries to say, but Geralt is already growling at him.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Jaskier?” he snaps. Gentle-rough hands push Jaskier down onto the one bed in the room. They’d decided to share, to save money. Always to save money. Geralt starts pacing, not an aimless trek but a journey around the room, pulling various supplies out of their scattered bags. “You could have died. What if your lung had been punctured? Or your kidney ruptured?” A jar and a roll of bandages are thrown down by Jaskier’s side, and the bard winces at the sharp movement. Geralt stops in front of him, fists clenched at his side, glaring down at Jaskier’s face. Accusation in every line of his body.

Jaskier sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide the wince as it pulls at his side. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. Geralt isn’t entitled to know of Jaskier’s every scrape and bruise. Yet Jaskier feels guilty regardless. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The fiend was there, so was I, I ended up fine! I’ll be better in another week or less.”

Geralt looks away, jaw clenching as he studies the far side of the room with intense scrutiny. Without looking back, he says, “You should have told me.”

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt turns and gathers up the supplies on the bed and sits down beside him. The lid of the jar pops off, releasing a cool, minty smell into the air. “Lift your arm up,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier does. He can only go up so far without pain, so he rests his forearm on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s bare from the waist up and Geralt is still fully dressed. It makes him feel off balance and short of breath, for some reason. A moment later Geralt’s fingers are smoothing lightly over his ribs, rubbing whatever salve was in the jar across Jaskier’s bruises. The gentle touch steals the rest of the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

Jaskier lets Geralt work on him in silence, the minutes stretching out silently between them. He’s not sure what to say - how to tell Geralt that he didn’t want him to be mad without sounding like a child, how to make Geralt feel less guilty without being patronizing. Jaskier never quite knows how to manage Geralt’s emotions, not like he does everyone else’s. A crowd, a pretty barmaid, a professor at Oxenfurt, all of these are easy to push and pull where he pleases. Easy to predict. Geralt… isn’t. He digs in his heels when Jaskier tries to lead him, closes himself off when Jaskier tries to get a peak under the mask. Geralt is, Jaskier thinks, perhaps one of the most complicated people Jaskier’s ever met. He knows that’s part of the draw. But it’s frustrating in moments like these, when Jaskier wants so badly to say just the right thing to make Geralt’s shoulders relax, to make the deep frown marring his lovely mouth loosen into a smile. He thinks he could figure it out, given enough time. If Geralt will let him.

When Geralt finally moves to face away from him, to attend to his back, Jaskier speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he forces his voice to be steady and firm. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to feel bad for not - That is, I don’t blame you. And I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Geralt's hands still on his back, his warm palm burning where it rests on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. It’s so hot in the room, sweat prickling against Jaskier’s brow, and Geralt’s hand doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you slow me down,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his breath on the nape of his neck, and he can’t suppress a shiver. Geralt must notice, but he doesn’t comment.

“You very much do,” Jaskier argues, irritated. “You remind me on a near nightly basis that if I’m not up when the sun is you’ll leave me behind. I don’t even bother to ask for a break anymore because you never fail to remind me that it’s my choice to be here. And it is, I know that. I’ll keep up, and if I can’t I’ll take my leave. You’ve made it quite clear that the onus of responsibility rests with me, and I accept that.”

From this close Jaskier can nearly hear Geralt grinding his teeth together. “Not at the expense of your health,” he says, and he sounds properly angry now. “Fuck, Jaskier, you can’t think I’d - That I wouldn’t wait, that I’d leave you behind when you were hurt. You could have fucking died, if it’d been more serious. You couldn’t have known that it wasn’t, right away. What if I’d woken up the next day and you’d choked to death on your own blood in your sleep? What if you’d -” He cuts himself off.

Now Jaskier turns to face him, shocked by the display of emotion, feeling Geralt’s hand shift across his back. Geralt looks away from him, hiding, but the expression that Jaskier catches on his face is… pained. As if it would truly hurt him, to see Jaskier damaged beyond repair. Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want you to take it personally.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his again, smouldering in the low light. Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’s a bit drunk, and they’re so, so close together. The space between them is warm, and Geralt’s hand slowly slides down his back to rest at Jaskier’s hip. “I always take it personally when it comes to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier breathes out shakily. Geralt reaches out with his other hand and gently grasps Jaskier’s elbow, making Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into his knee. “Tell me next time,” Geralt says. And then, “Please.”

Jaskier is powerless to refuse him anything in this moment, so he says, “Alright. I will. Just don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” Something tense releases in Jaskier, because Geralt is not frivolous with his words and a promise means something coming from him. He won’t leave Jaskier behind.

“Well good,” Jaskier says, and smiles easily at him. His side feels better now with the salve and the fuzzy layer of alcohol in his system, and every part of him touching Geralt is tingling pleasantly. It’s a lot of parts, he realizes giddily. He’s nearly in Geralt’s lap, held close by Geralt’s hands in something that’s nearly an embrace, and Geralt’s lips are right there. All Jaskier would have to do is lean forward just a smidge, press them together gently, soft as a feather -

Geralt’s eyes flicker to his mouth, and Jaskier flushes hot all over. Gods. Just a look and he feels undone.

But before he can do anything, Geralt is up and halfway across the room, tucking the jar away like nothing had happened. Jaskier lets out a breath that’s equal parts disappointment and relief. A moment later Geralt is back at his side, holding the roll of bandages.

“This will keep you from pulling them while they heal,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier obediently raises his arms up as much as he can. Geralt wraps up his ribs efficiently, and it does feel a little more stable. It will help him sleep, at the very least. Just before he wraps the light gauze around Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt leans in and drags in a deep breath.

Jaskier splutters. “Are you sniffing me, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt huffs out an amused breath against his skin. “Checking for infection. You don’t smell sweet, so you’re probably alright.”

“I smell plenty sweet,” Jaskier gripes. Geralt finishes the bandages, tying them off neatly. Jaskier feels compressed, a bit, but it’s for the best.

“You smell like ale,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “And the salve. And that lavender soap I hate.”

“You only hate it the first day I use it,” Jaskier points out. The smell is too strong for Geralt to abide by. Jaskier tries not to use it unless they’ll be apart for a day or so. He’d bathed with it the day after the hunt, hoping that the intensity of it would mask anything else Geralt might scent on him. Pain, or distress. Geralt had supported a pinched look of annoyance for a full half a day.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds annoyed and fond at the same time in equal measure, which Jaskier wouldn’t have said was possible before he met Geralt. The most complicated man he’d ever met. “You need to rest.”

“Up at dawn?” Jaskier guesses, shucking off his pants and settling under the covers. Geralt removes his own boots and pants and crawls in on the other side, settled between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s to protect him or to keep him from running off. As if he ever would.

“We’ll leave when you're ready,” Geralt says, snuffing out the candle flickering on the bedside dresser. In the darkness, Jaskier hears, “I’ll wait for you.”

For once Jaskier has nothing else to say to that, so he settled down into the covers and plans to sleep past noon.

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #whump #no. 30 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #october2020 #my work #fic #writing

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hyuckssunchip · 4 years ago

Text

눈빛

~the expression of one’s eyes

Pairings: Mark x Reader, ft. Johnny

Words: 3.3K

Warnings: Language (there is almost always language in my writings), angst, unrequited love

Synopsis:

It wasn’t as if Mark couldn’t see it, in fact he was almost sure that Johnny could see it too. The way that you looked at him. At Johnny.

“Horror or Rom-com tonight?” You turned to face Johnny, dressed in his familiar pajamas, plaid didn’t do him justice.

“I dunno, it’s your night to choose.” Your eyes followed his figure, and you admired the messy hairdo you had gotten so used to.

“Horror? Are you up for some nightmares tonight?” He laughed, and your heart skipped a beat at the sound.

You giggled at his response, but he recognized the nervous look on your face.

“Don’t worry I’ll keep you safe, just like old times.” He plopped on the cushion next to you, his body flushed against yours. This was nothing new, his warmth was a familiar feeling, but you could never get used to the butterflies that the contact sent through you.

“Remember that time you thought that Pennywise was hiding under your bed?” He snorted at the memory of you huddled on the couch in the middle of the night, begging for him to stay up with you.

“That was stupid, and I told you I didn’t like clowns.” You grumbled, wrapping the blanket around you tighter, trying to ignore the teasing looks.

“Sure, so I’m guessing you don’t like ghosts either?” He nudged you, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I’m fine with ghosts.” You mocked back, but the hint of fear was evident in your voice.

“Great! I know a great movie then!” He moved towards the remote, checking out your reaction from the side of his eye.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, sinking further into the couch.

You were interrupted by the soft slam of the front door.

“Johnny?” You turned at the sound of a new voice.

“Oh, hey Mark. We’re about to watch a movie, wanna join? It’s horror.” He sang the last part, taunting you.

“Oh.” The awkward tension didn’t leave, and you turned to face Johnny, indicating you wanted to be introduced.

“Oh. Y/N this is Mark, Mark Y/N.” Johnny went back to the TV searching for the movie and leaving you and Mark to awkwardly acknowledge each other.

“Hi.” You let out a soft whisper, waving a shy hand at the newcomer.

“Hi.” But all he could do was stare back, a tiny smile adorning his face. You returned his smile, and turned to Johnny, digging your elbow into his side.

“Ow! What?” He flinched, rubbing his ribs and giving you a teasing glare. You nodded your head in Mark’s direction.

“Mark, you gonna join?” He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Oh, yeah, I guess.” He stuttered out, glancing between the two of you as he fell into the seat adjacent from you.

The starting credits of the movie began, lighting up your faces. Throughout the movie you had dug yourself into Johnny’s side, his arm making its way around your shoulders, laughing at the way you used him as a shield.

“You could’ve said no to ghosts.” He whispered in your ear, with a teasing grin on his face.

“Shut up.” You smacked his chest.

From the other couch Mark watched your interaction, the way that you looked at him, the way that you held onto him.

“Oh, hi.” You were startled, looking up from the comfortable position on the couch.

“Hi.” You winced at the awkwardness, suddenly wishing you hadn’t showed up to Johnny’s place early.

Mark slowly sat down on the other couch, as if he was worried that you didn’t want him there. Which wasn’t exactly true, but also not far from the truth.

“Are you waiting for Johnny?” He asked, choosing to look at anything but you.

“Yeah, it’s movie night again, but he said he was running late.” You rolled your bottom lip between your teeth, staring at the plant on the coffee table.

“Oh.”

The silence was heavy. Normally you weren’t this awkward, but apparently your social ineptness and his just made things worse.

You giggled at the thought and as a way to relieve the tension.

“What?” He furrowed his eyebrows, worried that he had done something.

“Nothing.” But you couldn’t help but giggle again. The laughter was contagious and soon you found each other’s company comfortable.

You wiped the small tear that was threatening to escape, “Oh my god, my cheeks hurt.” You shook your head, the last half an hour you and Mark had been laughing non-stop, bantering as if you had known each other as long as you and Johnny had.

He had the biggest grin on his face, a goofy look that you thought was sweet.

“What’s going on here?” Johnny entered, chucking his back by the entrance. He commanded attention, pulling you and Mark away.

“We were just talking about you actually.” You smirked, winking at Mark.

“Hey, that’s not nice. What’d you talk about?” At the sound of the both of your laughter Johnny had wielded one of the biggest smiles you had ever seen. He felt content at the sight of the two people he loved most being happy.

“Oh, just some things… like that time where we went swimming and you-” His hand slapped over your mouth as he sent you a glare.

Mark doubled over in laughter, as you ripped his hand away from your face. “I already told him, it’s not new news.” You laughed at the look of horror on his face.

“You said you’d take that to the grave!” He threw an accusing finger at you.

“Oops. I lied.” You giggled at his face.

“Whatever. Horror night again I guess.” He smirked at the way your face fell.

“No, it’s my turn to pick.” You whined at him, to which he promptly shook his finger at you.

“Uh-uh, you lost that privilege the moment you opened your mouth.” He reached for the remote, quickly trying to find the movie.

You pouted, crossing your arm over your chest. “Whatever.” The smile grew on your face as you made eye contact with a very red-faced Mark, who looked as if he was going to combust from holding in his laughter. “It was worth it.”

Mark snorted, unable to keep it in. “I can’t believe you-” But the rest of his sentence couldn’t be heard, his own laughter ruining the story.

“Whooo.” He calmed himself, dabbing the undersides of his eyes dry.

“Okay. You done now?” Johnny teased sarcastically. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the grin that stretched over his face.

“Yeah.” But the tips of Mark’s lips never went down.

“Where are you going?” Johnny shouted at your back as you tried to leave the apartment.

“Mark’s taking me bowling. We’re going to practice so we can whoop your ass next Friday.” You shouted back, shoving your feet into your worn shoes, victims of your lack of patience.

He smiled at the sound of the door slamming, pleased that you two were getting along great. He wanted so badly for your friendship to work out, and possibly move to something more. Mark wasn’t exactly shy in the way that he looked at you, or talked about you. And Johnny could think of no one better he would approve of.

But the problem wasn’t with Mark, it was you. You were oblivious to his feelings, and even more so to your own. No matter how much time you spent with Mark, you told yourself that your heart belonged to someone else. No matter how wrong that was, you had convinced yourself that what you felt was love, and it wasn’t possible to feel that way for anyone else.

“You know I think you should get out there, I mean I know a really great guy that would be perfect for you.” You frowned at his words, not liking the sound of it.

You hated the way he was pushing you into a random relationship, especially when you just wanted nothing more than for him to reciprocate your feelings. But he was doing the opposite.

“I don’t want to get with a random guy.” You tried to push the idea away and move away from the topic.

“But you can’t just keep hanging out with me,” He frowned at your scowl, “I just want to do you a favor, I think you’ll really like him.”

“I don’t want to, Johnny. I’ll get into a relationship when I want to.” You pushed back, grabbing your phone as a distraction.

“When is that gonna be? You can’t just wait forever.” He tried to get your attention.

“Who says I’m waiting? I don’t need to be in a relationship to be happy.” You snapped at him, his words now hitting a little too close to home.

“I’m not saying you’re not happy, just that you should find someone that can love you the way you deserve.”

You tensed at his words, not quite yet understanding where that was coming from.

“I know, and I’ll find that when it comes along.”

“I can’t do that for you.” He let out, biting his bottom lip.

Your heart stopped and suddenly you felt your chest tighten.

“So you knew.” You felt hot tears of embarrassment threaten to fall.

“Y/N…” There was a pleading tone as he realized your hurt, but that didn’t stop him from his next words, “It was hard not to.”

You swore you heard your heart break. “How long?” You croaked out.

“A long time Y/N.” He faltered out, watching your expression fall.

The feeling of betrayal hit you hard, and unable to reach his eyes anymore you turned on your heel, just narrowly missing his outreaching grasp.

“Y/N…” He paused, noticing the way you hesitated. It was hard not to, after all your feelings were still so strong and so real.

But he never finished, and you took that as a sign that the conversation, or whatever this situation was, was over.

It was only natural for you to find comfort in the person that seemed to know you best after Johnny. Mark.

“I was talking to Haechan yester- hey, what’s wrong?” Mark immediately found your eyes, a pool of empathy that you longed for.

You sniffled and your bottom lip trembled as you tried to speak. “He...Johnny.” That was all you got out before your voice was swallowed by a sob.

He reached out for you tentatively, wrapping an arm over your shoulder. You automatically melt into his embrace.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, softer than before, but just as genuine.

“Johnny found out I like him…” You faltered, not wanting to come to terms with his rejection.

You were terrified at the sight of his face, he wasn’t at all shocked at your confession.

“Was I that obvious?” You asked, moving to wipe the streaks off your face.

He sighed, trying not to meet your desperate eyes. “I mean…”

Your shoulders dropped, face heating in embarrassment. “Does everyone know? Am I just that transparent?”

“So what if you wear your heart on your sleeve? What’s wrong with that?” He leaned down to make eye contact, trying to console you.

“He doesn’t…”

You didn’t finish, but he didn’t need you to. Once again, his arms wrapped around you and he swayed you in embrace for a moment of silence.

Although he hesitated to ask, he desperately wants to know the answer to the question on his mind. His timing wasn’t great, but he’s human too.

“Do you… still like him?” He asked the top of your head, not daring to move as he felt you stiffen.

“Yeah…”

Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t want to though.”

“Sometimes you can’t help it.” He mumbled, some of his own truth behind his words. “The heart wants what it wants right?”

“Yeah.”

“Y/N.”

You froze, it was too early for you. You knew the moment you laid eyes on him you would break again.

“Are you mad?” He asked gently to your back, although you couldn’t see him, the Johnny you knew was genuine.

You sighed, it was soon, but you wanted to be able to hold yourself together for this conversation.

“No.” It came out as a squeak and you flinched at the sound of your vulnerable voice.

“I don’t want… I don’t want our friendship to be like this. I don’t want things to change.” Your heart sank at his words, although he had good intentions you knew the meaning behind them. That anything more than a friendship was never going to happen.

“I can’t do this right now.” You whispered out, sliding past the door. You felt your throat tighten involuntarily and a sob escaped you as you ran down the hallway, bumping into Mark on the way.

“Y/N?”

You continued past him, not wanting to take the chance that Johnny had followed you.

But the steps caught up with you, and you found a pair of arms enveloped you from behind and your shoulders sank in defeat.

“Y/N?” You relaxed at the familiar voice. You turned around in his arms, choosing to wrap your arms around his waist. You fit snug against his chest, the warmth and his heartbeat calming you.

“Shhh…. It’s okay.” He patted the back of your head, raking his hands slightly through your hair.

You simply hummed, not able to formulate a sentence yet. Together you rocked silence, slowly but surely calming you.

“I’m just not ready.” You answered eventually, muffled into his chest.

“It’s okay.” He murmured back.

“I want to be ready to face him, but it still hurts.”

“Y/N, just take your time, you don’t have to be ready yet.” He comforted you, ignoring the own pain that he felt.

“Thank you.” You whispered into his chest, sniffling as you pulled away. You laughed nervously wiping your nose, “I’m sorry about your shirt.”

He giggled back, trying to make you feel better, “My shirt isn’t worth your apology. I’ll be your human tissue any time.”

You smiled shyly at his words, and you felt a small flutter in your stomach.

Another week had passed before your dreaded conversation with Johnny arrived. You finally felt ready to face the truth, but it didn’t mean you weren’t scared for the change that came with it. You weren’t stupid, awknowledging this meant that things weren’t going to be the same between you two. As scary as that was, nothing was going to get fixed if you avoided it.

“I- I don’t know where to start.” You had never seen Johnny so shy or confused. You were used to him being the powerhouse, the moodmaker. And it hurt you to see him look so defeated.

“Then let me. I have some things to get off my chest, and I honestly don’t know if I can do it if I don’t say it now.” You sighed, taking a deep breath to calm yourself.

He nodded, letting you take your time.

“It just hurt, you know. Like not only was it one-sided, but I just kinda felt betrayed that you played along with it. If you knew the way I looked at you and you didn’t feel the same, you didn’t have to play into it so much.” You paused, still looking at the ground. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want things to change. I love our friendship, and I never wanted something to come between us. I thought for sure things would get weird if I said something. I mean, look at us now.” He let out a nervous laugh, something that you couldn’t reciprocate.

“But don’t you think it would’ve been better to let me know, so I didn’t feel like you played with me and my feelings?” You felt bitter when reminiscing the moments he made your heart flutter.

“I never once meant to play with your feelings, I swear. I know it looks really bad, and it didn’t help stop your feelings when I acted like that. But I truly didn’t do it to mess with you, or purposely hurt you.” He reached for your hands, grasping you softly. “I didn’t want things to be like this, I just figured that you would find someone else and forget about me. I mean that’s what I hoped.”

You faltered at his words, heartbroken that he wished that your feelings would just fade.

“I know it was stupid, and it was harsh, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt you and I thought this was the best way.”

You pulled your hands from his, fiddling with your fingers. But slowly you nodded, starting to understand him. Of course Johnny wouldn’t do that to you on purpose, you could trust him.

You watched as his expression visibly fell, and you wanted so badly to comfort him. “I know that you meant well, I just wish it didn’t come out like this, I wish you would’ve just told me. But I get that you didn’t want to hurt our friendship and I know this is probably better. I don’t think that there would’ve ever been the right time to tell me. It just hurts, you know. It would’ve hurt at any time though.”

You sighed at your admission, realizing that this was inevitable. With your feelings and your relationship with Johnny, this was inevitable, it was only a matter of when and how.

“I don’t want to say sorry for being hurt, or say sorry for having feelings for you, my feelings were valid. But I do want to say I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. I should have come to terms with it a long time ago but... I didn’t want to.”

He smiled sadly back at you. “Can things go back anytime soon? I don’t want things to be weird between us. I would hate our friendship to end.”

“Me too. I do think that it’ll take some time for things to go back to normal, if it will. But I want everything to work out the way it did before, and I’ll try.” You gave him a small smile, a means of offering your attempt in saving your relationship.

“Don’t be stupid. I told you it’ll never work, you’re just wasting your time.” You snorted at the loud thud that followed your words.

“I’m telling you, balancing upside down won’t get rid of your hiccups, what kind of logic is that?” Mark moaned in pain from his position on the floor, now sprawled out.

“Then what do I do?” He rubbed his head, face still red from the blood rushing to his face.

“Uh I don’t know, learn to live with it?” You snickered at the look he gave you.

“Uh… why is Mark on the floor?” Johnny walked in, staring between the two of you with a weird look on his face.

“He’s trying to get rid of hiccups.” You replied, leaning over the back of the couch to get a good glimpse at Mark.

“That doesn’t work.” Johnny said confidently, “I’ve tried.” He plopped on your right, staring down at the hiccuping boy, who glared back.

He wrapped an arm around your neck, pulling you into a soft headlock.

Things were still different than before, but you were starting to go back to normal. His touch no longer sent flutters through your stomach and you smiled at the interaction.

“What you need to do is hold your breath.” He motioned to the way he was holding you, “I can help you out with that.”

Mark glared at the older boy, “No thanks, I rather enjoy breathing.”

He rolled over and slowly sat himself up, leaning back on his hands. He cleared his throat, sparing a glance up at the two of you. “And hands off my girlfriend.”

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starlightrows · 3 years ago

Text

4 — The New King

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

← Previous - Next →

Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Discussion of losing parents, mention of disordered eating, bed sharing

Summary: Saved from an untimely death by starvation and exposure, Boba offers you a place in his palace

*This chapter contains an Easter Egg for an upcoming series that severely deviates from canon*

When you wake up your head is throbbing and you feel sick to your stomach, you’re so hungry. But the one thing you don’t feel, is cold. In fact you’re actually quite warm and comfortable at the moment. You crack your eyes open and are confused to find yourself wrapped in a worn blue blanket, laying in what looks like a large storage closet with a mattress on the floor.

You peer out the open door and see you’re on a ship. How did this happen? Who’s ship is this? Suddenly your stomach growls loudly… you smell something… something good. It doesn’t matter who’s ship this is, you have to eat whatever it is that smells that good.

You clamber out of the sleeping closet and see Boba turning off a hot plate and sealing a bag that surely must contain dehydrated food. He turns when he hears you.

You stare at him, at the food. You’re confused and starving. Having no idea what to stay you just stand there.

He offers you a hand, a gesture to approach “It’s not the most flavorful or healthy dining option” he says “but it’s hot, and will be ready in just a few minutes”

You step closer cautiously and look up at his face “How did you find me?” You ask in an unsteady voice

“I went back to the inn and saw what happened to it. And the town. Followed the road, I figured you’d take the shorter path with water even though it would be uphill and colder” he explains, handing you the sealed bag and a long handled spoon. You open the bag and dig in, not even caring what it is. “Eat slowly Princess, you’ll make yourself sick”

He’s right. You’ve seen it before. Travelers who haven’t eaten in days… weeks even… come to the inn and eat a lot of food in a short period of time… they land up retching in the woods behind the inn. So you slow down and actually taste the food as you eat it.

You make it about half way through the meal before you feel a little sick. You don’t normally eat this much food to begin with. So you set aside the bag of food and let your stomach settle. Boba is eating from a similar bag of food. You study your current meal companion and apparent savior.

“Why did you come back? Why did you come after me?” You ask

“I told you I would” he says “I came back to extend you an invitation, to come to Tatooine”

“You want me to go to Tatooine with you?” You're surprised by that. Sure he’s said it the last time you’d met, but you didn’t think he’d meant it. Men who pass through little towns like yours generally don’t keep promises to return.

“You don’t have to by any means” he says “But the offer is on the table”

“I can’t exactly refuse, can I? My home and businesses are gone…” This is coming out all wrong. This man just saves your life and you’re treating him like he planned this all out “I’m sorry… that was rude and ungrateful”

“You are not wrong” he points out “Put it another way. As you have said, you can’t go back. So I’ll offer you a choice, Princess. Come with me to Tatooine, or tell me anywhere you’d like to go and I will take you there”

“You would really do that? Just ferry me anywhere in the galaxy or take me back with you to Tatooine? That is a kindness I can’t repay”

“You already have. You saved my life that night in the storm. And I did promise you I would come back for you”

“Why?” You ask in a whisper “why would you come all the way back here? You owe me nothing… even if I did let you come in that night”

“Because you made an impression, little one. I found myself thinking about the sweet innkeeper at the edge of the universe often. Even before you saved my life. I always planned on coming back for you, I only wish I had done so sooner”

You let his words sink in. I always planned on coming back for you. You can feel your heart beating in your chest and your cheeks flushing with heat. “I’ll go with you” you say softly “back to Tatooine… Let me work in the kitchens or something to be useful in your household”

“We can talk about that later” He chuckles. “I know it isn’t flavorful, but I want you to eat and get more rest. Replenish your strength”

Your stomach is full, given that you usually don’t eat heavily on a regular basis. But he’s right, you know you need to eat more. Not just right now to recover from hypothermic exposure, but in general. That’s always been a struggle for you. But you do try. The food is right there, and he has been kind enough to offer it you freely.

Boba returns to the cockpit to manually fly his ship, you force yourself to eat at least a few more bites of the rehydrated food he prepared for you. You take the blanket from the cot where you woke up with you, and climb up into the cockpit to sit with him.

He doesn’t turn when you slide into the seat next to him but he does when he notices you wrapping the blanket over your shoulders.

“Apologies Princess” he says “This ship was not built for comfort”

“It’s alright. Just a little cold” you run the edge of the blanket between your finger tips

“You won’t be cold when we reach Tatooine” he chuckles

“No, I suppose not. I’ve heard Tatooine’s binary suns make it so that nothing grows” you can’t imagine it. A world where nothing grows. You grew up in the greenery of a forested planet, at the base of a mountain with rich soil for growing vegetables.

“Tatooine is rather desolate” he admits “Most of the palace is actually built underground to keep cool”

“The palace” you muse “And how does being king suit you so far?”

“The Hutt’s left that place a mess. The palace and their business affairs. It’s all been a nightmare cleaning it up” he admits “My partner Fennec and I have only been able to clear out a few rooms, the business affairs take precedent”

The word partner pulls you up short. Your heart sinks. Partner… your mind immediately jumps to significant other. If that’s the case, then why is he inviting you into their space? Does this person know Boba has made this journey to see you? Do they know he’s bringing you back with him? Your mind races, and you feel a bit measure of panic setting in. What if this partner has no idea, and gets angry? What if this situation turns sour and you have to figure out somewhere else to go?

“You’re awfully quiet” Boba observes “Have I said something to offend you?”

You figure you may as well ask… better to know what you’re walking into rather than go in blind. “Your partner” you swallow the waver in your voice “What are they like?”

“She’s a former bounty hunter like me” he says

Oh no… now you’re really in trouble…

“Hmm… and she’s just fine with you flying off to the edge of the galaxy to visit an innkeeper?” you try not to make the question sound like an accusation.

He turns to look at you with the ghost of a smile on his lips “You misunderstand little one. Fennec is my business and hunting partner. She has no influence or opinion over my personal affairs”

Relief floods your heart, followed instantly by embarrassment. “Oh, that’s… that’s good I suppose. I just didn’t want… I didn’t mean… I just don’t want to cause problems”

“You’re not causing problems. I offered this to you, and to be honest I am glad you accepted,” he admits

That makes you feel better, a little more at ease. In that moment, you realize why you’d reacted so suddenly and severely in your mind. You like him.

You haven’t had many crushes in your life, not a ton of opportunity for it. When you were young there were a few other kids your age in the settlement, maybe one or two of them caught your interest, a few secret kisses in the barn or behind the one roomed school building, but it never lasted, and for good reason. The people who passed through your inn were never really the type you had interest in either. Until now…

Hours pass sitting in the cockpit next to him, chatting about your life in the settlement and his traveling on his own since the age of ten.

You don’t want to pry, but you do make a comment on it “Ten is quite young to be on your own”

“You said yourself you were young when your parents passed and left you with the inn” he points out

“Suppose loss like that makes a person independent” you sigh

“Would have been nice if we didn’t have to be independent so early in life” he said curtly

“I would have liked to have brothers or sisters” you say wistfully “At least things seemed to turn out well enough”

“I think if my father had lived longer, I would have had a younger sibling” Boba says “I think my mother wanted a another son or daughter”

“Your mother never found love again?” You ask sympathetically

“No idea, I haven’t seen her since the beginning of The Clone Wars” he says, starting the command sequence to drop out of hyperspace

Since the beginning of The Clone War… over thirty years ago… “That’s very sad” you say quietly

“It’s better this way. I don’t think she would be proud of some of the things I’ve done” he says “But maybe someday I’ll find out what happened to her” You take that as a queue to drop the subject.

The ship drops out of hyperspace, and Boba starts the landing approach sequence. Tatooine is a massive planet. Even from space you can see it’s yellow sand and rock formation topography. It’s a wonder how any species manages to live there, given the prominent lack of water or greenery.

As the ship flys down closer to the surface you find that the chill of space dissipates, and heat radiating off the planet's surface permeates through the reinforced walls of the ship. You shed the blanket that had been keeping you warm before even touching down.

The palace is massive. The biggest structure you’ve ever seen. Three cylindrical towers built into the cliffs overlooking The Great Dune Sea.

Boba engages the ground security protocols, and lowers the ramp and escorts you to the intimidating durasteel door. There are no guards, no one patrolling to prevent entry. Boba opens the door with no indication of announcing his entry. The entryway is a short sandy strip of a room leading to a descending staircase.

He offers his arm to you “Careful Princess, these shifting sands make these steps more slippery than you’d expect”

You accept his offer, and place your hand in the crook of his arm and start down the staircase. He’s not wrong, loose sand on stone is slippery and you are glad to have his arm for stability.

The staircase ends and leads into a large space clearly meant to entertain groups. The room is in disarray. It is clear, based on the drag marks and blood splatter in the sand, Bib Fortuna and whoever else of Jabba’s entourage remained died at the hands of Boba and his partner. Outcropping in the stone walls lined with low couches, pillows, tables and chairs. Many of which are broken or knocked over. A large grate in the center of the floor sits at the foot of an elevated platform. A throne.

Boba lets your arm go, freeing you to move about the space and explore. He ascends the shorter staircase to reach the throne and sits, quietly observing you. After a moment you turn to him, and take in his regality. He’s intimidating with his emotionless helmet and solid stanced posture. A king in every right.

You smile at him and give a small curtsy “My lord”

He chuckles behind his mask, so very contrary to the stoic picture he paints with his armored silhouette. “Come, allow me to show you the rest” He rises from his seat, and extends a hand for you to take.

He shows you down a hallway lined with doors, explaining they’re private rooms previously used for guests. “Most of them haven’t been cleaned in decades”

“You would think with all the credits the Hutt’s had, they’d pay for cleaning services” you shake your head

“Unfortunately I haven’t had the time to clear out many of the private quarters. Just the Master’s chambers and a single guest room Fennec uses” he tells you, turning down a hallway with an ornate door at the end. Clearly the Master’s chambers he was referring to.

The room is bigger than the footprint of your inn. High ceilings to let hot air rise, an en-suite fresher with a deep soaking tub, a massive bed is the only furniture left in the room. It’s beautiful despite not being decorated or well maintained. But you could imagine it was much worse if this is what Boba describes as “cleaned out”.

“If you are comfortable, I would like to invite you to stay with me in the Master’s chambers” he says from behind you “At least until a room can be cleared out for you, if you so choose”

You whip around to look at him. An offer to share a bed with a king. He must see the touch of fear in your eye because he quickly speaks again.

“I have no intention of asking favor of you. I only wish to make sure you’re comfortable here. You have my word.”

You soften at his promise, and give a silent nod before thinking better of his hospitality. “Thank you”

Later that day you finally meet Boba’s infamous partner, Fennec Shand. She’s got a sharp eye, quick wit and a taste for good spotchka. It’s an interesting tale to hear how they came to meet and land up in each other’s company.

As there are not yet staff or guards in Fett’s employ, dinner is some kind of hunted desert beast Fennec killed yesterday. It’s actually not too bad, but not like the game hunted on your homeworld.

“In time we will get this sorry excuse for a capital back up and running” Boba says when the meal is finished “Full staff and guard and reopen trade”

“I can help begin clearing out the palace” you offer “Make suitable accommodations for your staff and guard, and any allies that may come to stay”

Boba looks to you “You are not obligated to do so little one, but your help is appreciated”

“I enjoy having projects” you admit with a smile “Things to work on and keep me busy”

“Then you make take the task, for so long as you choose” he smiles at you.

Despite his haggard appearance, Boba has a nice smile. It softens him, brings out the light in his eyes. You find yourself returning the smile, and unable to wipe it from your face.

The evening comes to an end. Fennec excuses herself to return to her own bed chambers. Not without casting a sidelong glance between you and Boba, still chatting away. Eventually Boba leads you back to his own chambers. True to his word, he takes his robes into the fresher to allow you the privacy to change into borrowed sleeping clothing.

“I’ll buy you new clothes tomorrow” he promises, climbing into the oversized bed beside you.

Your impulse is to thank him politely and decline the offer, but given that you are his guest and no longer have property of any kind, it’s a kindness you have to accept.

“Thank you” your cheeks burn with heat, a little embarrassed to be needing so much from him at the moment. Borrowed clothing, a place in his palace and in his bed.

You get down under the blanket on the bed. Night time in the desert is quite cold, and sandstone walls that keep the palace cool during the day turn the air chilly when the binary suns set.

Boba turns towards you, laying on his side, he looks as if he wants to say something. Ask you something. But instead he just stares, with his dark soulful eyes and seemingly perfect hint of a smile

“Goodnight Princess”

Tag List: @cannedsoupsucks @otterly-fey @paige6768 @littledragonlady @star-hoes @aeryntheofficial @xx-small-town-witch-xx

#Boba Fett #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x reader #boba fett x f!reader #The Queen of Tatooine #QT

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oikawaplssteponme · 4 years ago

Text

sweet creature

pairing: Hajime Iwaizumi x fem! reader

warnings: swearing, a little bit suggestive

genre: fluff, childhood friends to lovers, soulmates (?)

word count: ~2k

synopsis: Tying the tie between you and him took longer than it should have.

a/n: hi hi! here is some well over due fluff for you all!! this isn’t directly based off of the song ‘sweet creature’ but i felt it fit the vibes and since the song makes a little appearance ;) [ also shoutout to the anon who wanted some iwaizumi fluff <3 ] reblogs are greatly appreciated! enjoy xx

Looking back at it all, you never expected things to turn out the way they did. You never expected to find yourself in love with him. It was cliche, cheesy even. Everyone around you saw it before you did, saying you two were soulmates. In reality you were just clueless kids, unable to see that the universe had put you together perfectly. You needed him, no matter what form of him. He was your best friend after all, and a platonic soulmate was still good enough in your eyes.

But no, you were destined for something more.

Iwaizumi Hajime and you were two peas in a pod. From elementary school to now, you and him were inseparable. Scraping your knees together, attending everyone of his volleyball matches, you were always by each other’s side. It was no wonder why people assumed you were dating. Iwaizumi’s face would flush pink every time, insisting that the two of you were just really close friends. You would whisper in agreement, every time.

Was it wrong of you to want to be more?

It was the last week of high school, graduation just days away. You were over at Iwaizumi’s house as usual. You laid on his bed as he rummaged through his closet.

“Did you figure out what you are wearing for graduation?” he asked. You looked up from your phone.

“I think just a dress? I have two to pick from that I bought,” you explained.

“Okay, what colors are they?”

“One is blue and the other is white. Why?”

“I thought I could match my tie to your dress,” he said. Your eyes widened.

“Oh, o-okay.”

Iwaizumi grabbed a few button downs from his closet and laid them down on his bed, followed by the ties he owned.

“Help me pick.” You moved to the edge of the bed, scanning the clothes.

“I like the blue tie with the light grey shirt. You’d look like a waiter if you wore the black shirt and white tie,” you chuckled. Hajime huffed.

“Alright alright.”

Iwa grabbed his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Your eyes darted to the floor.

“Uh what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna try it on dummy. I have to make sure it actually looks good,” he laughed. You looked back up at him. His perfectly chiseled figure standing before you as he tried to button up the shirt. You prayed that he couldn’t see that you were terribly flustered.

“These damn ties…” Iwaizumi groaned as he attempted to tie it. You chuckled.

“Come here.”

You hopped off the bed and stood close to Iwa, helping fix his tie.

“What are you gonna do when you go to college and I’m not gonna be there to tie your ties?” you smiled.

“I’ll call you and force you to come over and tie it for me.”

“I’ve been tying your ties since we were kids. I thought you would’ve learned by now.”

“Why would I bother learning when you can do it for me?” he teased. You chuckled.

“There, perfect.” You flatted the tie down, smiling.

“Thanks Y/N.”

You tilted your head back up, locking eyes with Hajime. You could stare into his eyes for hours, no issue. He chuckled.

“What are you staring at, huh?” Your face grew hot and you turned back around.

“Nothing…”

As the night drew on, you found yourself back at your place. Even though Iwa was just a house away, you wished you were still with him. You peaked out your window, hoping to see Iwa looking out of his. His curtains were open but the lights were off. You assumed that he was with Oikawa.

You looked at the calendar pinned to your wall. Two days of high school left. It was a strange feeling. The mix of anticipation and nervousness all into one. You were excited for summer. Day in and day out you could be spending time with Iwaizumi, just like every summer before. Of course, you’d much rather spend summer with him a little differently, but you knew that was unlikely.

You heard the familiar buzz of your cell phone, as the ringtone began to play. Your face lit up, as you recognized the noise. Only one person in your phone had this ringtone.

“Hello?”

“Window-”

The call ended quickly. You smiled, rushing to your window and opening it up.

“HI Y/N!” shouted Oikawa. You chuckled.

“How was studying?” you asked. Iwa sighed.

“This idiot barely finished his chemistry. He was busy blabbing about his graduation party.”

“I expect you to be there Y/N!”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s this Saturday right?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to have mine on the same day as yours and Iwa-chan’s,” explained Oikawa.

“Good choice,” teased Hajime. You and Iwa decided to do a small party for graduation together. Just family and close friends.

“Hey show me your dress,” insisted Iwaizumi. You grinned, heading to your closet and picking it out. Due to Iwaizumi’s blue tie, you decided to go with the blue dress.

“Woah there Y/N, you’re gonna take Iwa-chan’s breath away-”

“SHUT IT SHIT HEAD-,” Iwa smacked Oikawa upside the head, “don’t you have to go home?”

Oikawa checked his watch, before scrambling to get his things.

“Shit my mom’s gonna kill me- BYE!”

You chuckled, looking back at Iwaizumi. He cleared his throat.

“You’re gonna look beautiful Y/N.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but the heat rising in your face made it nearly impossible.

“Thank you.”

“I mean, you always are beautiful, but that dress might just set a new record for you,” he smirked. You pressed your lips together.

“Iwa…”

“Well we should both get some sleep,” he said. You nodded.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Goodnight Y/N.”

“Goodnight Hajime.”

You closed your window, then your curtains. You placed your dress back on a hanger, before plopping onto your bed. You felt all giddy inside, like a little kid. The butterflies in your stomach could fill an entire room. Did he mean those words in a ‘best friend’ sort of way? He had to, right? In all honesty you didn’t care about the context. After all, he still said it. Your smile was the same regardless.

“Smile you two!”

Iwaizumi’s mother had been taking pictures for the last thirty minutes, and you were honestly getting a little exhausted from posing.

“Mom that's enough-”

“One more! Hajime, stand behind Y/N.”

Iwa sighed. He did as he was told, moving behind you. He placed his large hands onto your waist, hugging you from behind. You tried not to react, still smiling at the camera.

“Okay okay now look at each other.”

You looked at Iwa, staring into those deep dark eyes. His face was so close to yours, you could smell the mint he had earlier.

“I’m sorry about this,” he mumbled. You giggled.

“It's okay.”

“Alright I got all the pictures I need.”

You keep looking at him, but more relaxed. Iwa didn’t move a muscle, as if he didn’t wish to let go of you. You weren’t sure if it was your imagination or not, but you swore that Iwa looked as if he was leaning in to-

“ALRIGHTY LETS GO! Grad party time!” cheered Oikawa. You and Iwa broke away from each other. You cupped your burning face as he cleared his throat.

“Y-Yeah lets go.”

You all headed to the Iwaizumi residence. There, you opened graduation gifts, jokes with friends, and even reminisced a bit on yours and Hajime’s childhood.

“I remember when you would make me catch bugs with you all the time! I hated doing that,” you joked.

“Okay but I always let the bugs go, didn’t I?”

“Aw Iwa-chan can’t hurt a fly-”

“But I can hurt you-”

“WAIT-”

You watched as Iwa and Oikawa fought as if they were kids before going to grab something to drink.

The night escalated to Toru finding the old karaoke machine and challenging Makki to a sing-off (which he declined). You sat on the couch with Iwa as the commotion in the room elevated.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked you. You let out a sigh of relief and nodded.

Hajime opened the door to his room, allowing you inside. He shut it, helping to keep things quieter.

“Wait a minute-”

You rushed over to the corner of his room.

“You can play the guitar?”

You picked up the instrument and examined it carefully. The guitar didn’t look new. In fact, it had to be a few years old.

Iwa took the guitar from your hands, holding it to his chest as his face grew in color.

“I-I can’t really play…”

“I have known you my entire life yet I never knew you had a guitar. Guess I’m a pretty shitty friend.”

“No not at all. I just- I don’t tell people that I can play…” he mumbled. You smiled, taking a step towards him.

“Could you play something for me? I won’t tell.”

Iwa looked at you, his eyes widened. He swallowed harshly.

“Of course.”

The two of you sat down on his bed. Hajime began to tune the guitar, his hands a little shaky. You placed your hand on his cheek. He looked at you intently.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I kinda put you on the spot there…”

“No I want to...I have a song in mind that I’ve been meaning to play for you.”

You smiled, nodding. You took your hand away, placing it back in your lap. Iwa took a deep breath, before carefullying picking at the strings.

He played a calming melody, one that you’ve heard before. Your heart melted the minute you realized what song he played.

“Sweet creature...had another talk about where it's going wrong…”

His voice was low and quiet, yet smooth and soft. You tried to hold back a smile and a few tears.

“I know when we started, just two hearts in one home…”

He sang to you. He was playing for you. Pleading that you understood what he was trying to say. Everyone fights, everyone has disagreements, it’s normal in every relationship. It was as if the letters of the lyrics were rearranged to say: “lets just try”.

You two would be leaving for university soon, that was inevitable. However, Iwaizumi never felt happier than when he was by your side.

“When I run out of road, you bring me home.”

Hajime played the final cord, before falling silent.

“Haj-”

“I know how to tie my ties. I just say I don’t so that you’ll do it for me. So that you’ll stand a little closer to me. So that I can smell the same perfume that you’ve worn since middle school. So that I can look into your eyes, and see the world within them. I’ve known how to tie my own ties since I was eight years old, but that's also the same age that I realized that I was in love with you.”

You couldn't seem to find the words. Your mouth hung open a bit, causing Iwa to get even more nervous. He set the guitar down on the floor, before burying his hands in his face.

“God I’m such an idiot-”

You took Iwaizumi’s hands and moved them from his face.

“Look Y/N I-”

He was unable to finish his sentence, as you had crashed your lips into his. His eyes were wide before he shut them tightly, cupping your face and kissing you hungrily. You wrapped your arms around his neck, running your fingers through is dark hair. Iwa couldn’t seem to get enough, bringing you impossibly closer to him as he deepened the kiss.

“Hajime…” you whispered, catching your breath. Iwa placed another peck on your lips.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

You were shaking, the familiar sensation of nervousness and anticipation rushed through your veins. Iwaizumi took your hand, placing a kiss on top of it.

“I love you.”

Looking back at it all, you should’ve known it was bound to happen. Maybe it was the fear of rejection that blinded you from the truth. Maybe you had to hear that it might not always be easy in order to realize that it was still worth it. It certainly was worth the risk. Love is the strongest adhesive, keeping people together no matter distance, disagreements, or destiny. Luck for you and Hajime, your destiny was the one you had always hoped for.

[general taglist: @lealofsblog @iwaisa @bakugousmymassa @evivn1 @bokutory @vangoghmusings @moonlightaangel @misszenin @marajillana @sopesmin @alaina-rose13 @shotoful @katlingclaw ]

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theyreonlynoodlesmike · 4 years ago

Note

Can you write Poly!Lost Boys x s/o x Michael? The lost boys let s/o seduce Michael into the dark side?

Oh hO HO- Okay, here you go. Making this an everyone loves Michael fic, and not including Star/Laddie.

Good Job, Michael (Poly!Lost Boys x S/O x Michael)

Word Count: 1725

Warnings: cursing, descriptions of blood/violence/gore

David's hand itched for a cigarette while he and his boys sat on their bikes. His mind was a swirl of thoughts, all of them complicated and muddled by the blondes own emotions. He knew what he had to do. Max wanted Lucy, and he thought her sons were the best way to get her. They turn Michael and Sam, and then Lucy turns. Ta-da, happy ending. But things weren't always that easy.

They sat on their bikes, knowing that somewhere, probably right at this moment, you were getting hit on. And that you were entertaining it. The thought didn't settle easy among the group, and instead it held over them like a persistent fog. Some members were more outspoken than others with their disapproval of the tactic, with Marko having been bitching about it since they woke up. He'd hesitated when letting you go, his gloved hand resting on your hip for a just a moment too long. All it did was pause you from saying goodbye to the others and you gave him a look, but he settled to just huff and wait to truly start complaining for when you left.

Paul was usually a chatterbox, but one of the least confrontational of all the boys. He preferred "peace and love, man", even if he tore into surf-nazis each night. But the way he was tapping on his bike handle and looking around gave him away. He didn't like this either, and finally he uttered out a whine of,

"Where are they?" They weren't used to letting you stray far. They rarely left eachothers sides, and their instincts were practically begging them to find you. Surprisingly, it was Dwayne that answered.

"Be patient." He said, his voice deep and bristly. He didn't like this as much as the others, that was clear by the permanent scowl on his face. His hands were gripping his handlebars, his knuckles tightening and threatening to snap the metal underneath his fingers. So much for patience.

While they all agreed that none of them liked this, David couldn't deny that another wave of emotion was clouding his mind. One that he'd carefully avoided, but resurfaced the second they saw you emerge from the crowd. Blue eyed, curly haired brunette in tow. The same feeling, the edging, burning interest of a new crush, edged his mind. One that he'd decided to keep to himself, even if the way he chose to stare at the brunette betrayed him to the others. The second the boys caught the way he was looking at the brunette, there was a sigh, small tittering, and a roll of hazel-green eyes. It didn't help that you were giving Michael the same exact goo-goo eyes.

---

You hadn't expected to actually like the brunette. You knew what David wanted, what Max planned. This was supposed to just be a simple trick, something to keep Max happy and off your back. A simple necessity, like drinking blood each night. Sure, having another boy around wasn't completely unwelcome, but, again, you hadn't expected to like him.

You found him after he donned a new, obviously new, leather jacket. He had seen the boardwalk, and the teens that owned it, and was trying desperately to fit in. It made you smile, a small feeling of pity flitting through you. The poor boy was even considering getting his ear pierced. You stepped forward, offering a quick,

"It's a rip-off." To catch his attention. He turned, and his eyes found you. He was quick to follow, asking,

"What?" And you smiled. A real smile. He was clueless. It was almost cute.

"It's a rip-off. Get a sewing needle and some ice, it'll do the job." You said, and he smiled for a moment, doing his best to follow you through the crowd.

"What's your name?" He asked, and you offered it freely. He repeated it, and was quick to chirp back. "I'm Michael." He said, and you nodded. You knew. You repeated his name back, catching his eye as you did so.

You looked him over now that you were closer, and, for the shadow of a moment, you saw exactly what he could become. The faint image of a Lost Boy was hidden behind his face, and you didn't doubt that in a few weeks, if not a few nights, he would grow into that image nicely. You couldn't help but say,

"You new to Santa Carla?" You asked, and he rubbed the back of his neck before he replied,

"That obvious, huh?" He asked, and you chuckled. He was oddly charming. He was like a puppy, filled with naivety and the need to be accepted. Liked.

"Just a little bit." You said, making a pinching gesture with your fingers. "But I like the jacket." You said, and you saw how that brought a smile to his face. He touched it, like he'd almost forgot that he was wearing it. You had to stifle a laugh when he said,

"This old thing?" And you reached out. He watched your hand come towards his, and he seemed excited for a moment. Excited from the idea that you were going to take his hand. You did, but only to pull a price tag from his wrist. You held it up, and, in a moment, he flushed. You couldn't stop your laugh then, and you had to tease him.

"Old thing, huh?" You said, but you were quick to wave your own comment away. "It's nice, though. It suits you." You said, and you watched him rub his neck again. You couldn't tell if his embarrassment was from having been caught in his lie or from being complimented by you. Still, he had enough confidence to ask,

"Wanna get something to eat?" As his bike came nearer. You nodded, and you could practically feel the stare from your boys on your back.

---

That was exactly what you asked him as you lead him into the dunes, the rest of your boys hooting and hollering behind you. Dwayne had thrown his arm around Marko, with Paul raising his hands teasingly at David. When you stopped near a tree, just above a partying group of teens, the laughter died. The tension had become suddenly thick, and Michael uncomfortably asked,

"I thought you said we were getting food?" He asked, and the boys snickered as they climbed into the tree. They'd been hazing him for days, even as their own feelings grew. But none of them were willing to do anything that would halt his progress, even if the tension was growing thicker between him and David. He would turn, and then they could pursue him.

You and Michael hung back for a moment, and you gave his arm a gentle squeeze. You looked at him. He had grown exactly into the image you had pictured. His cheeks were dusted with stubble, his sunglasses hanging from his white shirt. An earring hanging from his left ear. He was staring at you the same way he always did. So full of trust, naivety, and a willingness to please. Again, you found that you nearly pitied him. It's why you couldn't let him go into this completely blind, even if that had been David's plan.

"You've been having a weird pain lately, right?" You asked him, and his brows furrowed with confusion. You knew the thirst had hit him already, even if he hadn't acted on it. "And your hand." You reached for it. He'd told you about how Nanook had bitten him, but he'd skipped the detail about the mirror. His hand was now healed, as if he hadn't been bitten at all. While he wasn't the brightest, he was smart enough to realize that wasn't normal. You and the boys had succeeded in distracting him the night before, but now he had to know. "These are bad people, Michael. You don't need to feel guilty." You whispered, but he looked more confused than anything. He held your hand, giving it a squeeze. Before he could ask, you interruped, "Here, I'll show you." You said, guiding him towards the tree and then leaving him there while the boys watched you. While you'd given him just the slightest of hints, now it was time to set the plan into motion. Michael nearly followed you, only to be caught by Paul and Marko after a quick look from David. David trusted you, as did the others, as you stepped down towards the firelight.

Michael watched how the boys jeered at you, how one quickly took to your side. He was drunk, and it looked as if he planned on messing with you. The others quickly noticed you, and they circled you like a pack of wolves. The boys watched as Michael's- well, they couldn't tell if it was jealousy or protectiveness- flared, his eyes turning yellow. David smirked, and he leaned towards the brunette. Setting a hand on his shoulder, he said,

"You gonna let them do that, Michael?" And he nodded at the two blondes. They let him go, and just then one of the boys gave you a nudge. One that seemingly nearly knocked you to the ground. It was a bit of pretending on your part, but that was all it took.

His face had shifted completely, becoming almost lionesque as his fangs descended. Without the boys to grab him, he flew. You watched as they ripped and tore into the man's shoulder, knocking him flat onto his face. You watched as your boys laughed, joining him and pouncing as the surf-nazis began to try to run away. You snatched one for yourself, the blood hitting the back of your throat in a hot gush. The six of you were having a frenzy, and you tossed the limp body into the fire as the adrenaline filled your veins. You looked over at the curly haired brunette, his eyes still shining yellow instead of blue. He was panting, with blood drenched down his chin, neck, and the front of his shirt. He looked beautiful, not just to you but to the boys you had been with for- well, you couldn't remember exactly how long. He was truly one of you now, and you didn't hesitate to pull him in for a kiss. He moaned and licked at your mouth, whether to deepen it or catch the blood decorating it you couldn't tell.

When you pulled away, you caressed his stubbly cheek. His eyes had faded back to blue, but the completion of the transformation numbed any expected remorse. He simply ducked down again, capturing your lips once more, before the both of you giggled and you said,

"Good job, Michael."

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys paul #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys marko #paul the lost boys #david the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #marko the lost boys #michael the lost boys #the lost boys michael #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys imagines

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letsgivethisonemoreshot · 4 years ago

Text

Hot Sauce Inspiration

So, one day I was eating Taco Bell. And they have these little sayings on their hot sauce packets. I looked at one, and the phrase caused a little story to pop into my head and I texted it to a friend. Then another packet inspired another part. So I went to look at the rest and see if any others could spark anything in my weird brain, and here we are. The packets are bolded. This thirst trap was sponsored by Taco Bell. Practice safe eating. Use condiments.

Word Count: 1,797

Warnings: Language, mentions of sexual situations

You were known around the locker room for having a bit of an attitude. Not that you were a bully, but if there was something you wanted to say, most times you didn’t hold back where others would. Some would say you lacked a filter. Others would say you’re outspoken. You said that you just told the truth, and if people didn’t like that about you they could go screw themselves. It didn’t stop you from making friends, far from it. But it did rub some the wrong way.

You were currently in a hallway, still in your ring gear from your earlier match talking with Alexa Bliss. She was someone who you had gotten really close too. You had a lot in common which made you great travel buddies and had yet to get tired of spending so much time with each other. Somehow your conversation steered to making fun of Drew McIntyre. Again. He seemed to be one of your favorite people to rip on as of late. There was just something about him that got under your skin. Lately he had really become a leader in the locker room. Taking people under his wing, making sure they stayed out of trouble, helping them out. Which was great, but it never seemed to stop. He was the adult version of a goody two shoes and at times he kind of made you want to throw up. Not that you hid that. You’ve said it to people before. He’d probably even been around to hear it himself. He knew you talked about him. However, you weren’t aware that his match had finished, and he was now backstage, walking up behind you.

He startled you by clearing his throat behind you. You turned around to see him standing opening a water bottle as sweat dripped down his chest.

“You know it’s rude to interrupt people,” You shot at him. “What do you want?”

“You know it’s rude to talk about people behind their back,” He retorted, taking a swig of his water.

“Get lost McIntyre,” You rolled your eyes.

“Are ya sure you want me to lass?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean you do an awful lot of talking about someone you claim to not be fond of.”

Alexa, sensing the tension in the air, excused herself to go and “get ready for her match”, leaving the two alone. You scoffed.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You know, if there’s something you want to talk to me about, I’m right here.”

You barely let him finish his sentence before you started speaking. “Nope. Not too fond of you. Don’t need you. You can go find someone else around here to go and “help out” and play the fatherly figure to. I don’t have daddy issues. I’m good.”

Drew chuckles, leaning in a bit closer to you . His voice now deeper, and in a much more serious tone than he usually used.

“You keep telling yourself that princess. But we both know I can have you begging and calling me Daddy by the end of the night.”

“In your dreams McIntyre,” You said pushing passed him before he was able to see how flushed your cheeks had gotten at his comment.

He smirked before drinking his water again. “We’ll see about that,” He said to himself as he watched you walk away.

You spent the rest of the night trying to avoid Drew. You didn’t want any further interaction with him. He may act nice, but he was just a big old brute trying to abuse his power. And you would rather die than admit seeing him all sweaty and acting in charge actually turned you on. Once the show was over, you wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. You were dressed and ready to go, standing by the back door with your suitcase waiting for Alexa. You weren’t completely alone though. The hustle and bustle of the crew members packing everything up and your co-workers were leaving and wandering around the area. You tapped your foot impatiently while looking through your phone waiting for your friend. You had tuned out all of the noise around you and hadn’t realized someone had walked up behind you. Only noticing when the wheels of their suitcase came to a stop. You could sense who it was without turning around. His presence shadowing over you. He wasn’t touching you. He didn’t say anything to you. He wasn’t even making any effort to actually tell you that he was there, other than being a little too close. Doing it purposely to annoy you.

“Can you back up a step or two McIntyre? You’re in my personal space,” You said without taking your eyes off of your phone.

He chuckled deeply. “Don’t kid yourself. You know you want me in your personal space.”

“Seriously, my perfume is rather expensive and I’d rather smell like it than whatever you had for dinner and are breathing on me.”

“What crawled up your ass today princess? You’re even more vile than usual.”

You sighed, trying to show disgust at the nickname he always chose to call you. Just the tone in how he said it gave you goosebumps. “Can you stop calling me that? I do have a name you know.”

“I think I see the problem,” He said, ignoring you as he leaned down closer so that no one else would be able to hear what he said. “It’s that no one has crawled up your ass in a while, isn’t it?”

Your eyes grew wide at his comment. Thankfully he couldn’t see that. You felt your cheeks getting warmed as you awkwardly shuffled from one foot to another. Drew had never come back at you like this before, and you couldn’t believe that he had said what he did with other people around.

“You are disgusting McIntyre. So much for being a gentleman,” You finally brought yourself to say.

“I’m a gentleman to those who deserve it. You princess, do not deserve it. You seem to like to aggravate me and bring the ungentlemanly side out of me.”

“Or maybe deep down you’re just a nasty guy who isn’t as nice as everyone thinks?” You suggest, trying to sound unphased even though your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears.

Drew smirked behind you. “Whatever you need to tell yourself lass. But if you feel like not being such a bitch anymore and getting the attitude fucked out of you, a little birdie told me we were staying at the same hotel tonight. I’m in room 224. Don’t take too long. I won’t wait forever.”

You couldn’t stop fidgeting around in the car ride to the hotel. You hadn’t been paying any attention to what Alexa was saying. If she was even talking, she could have just been singing along with her music for all you knew. The only thing that was playing in your head was Drew’s sudden change of character towards you. You wanted to be so annoyed at him, walking around thinking he was God’s gift to the wrestling world and all women. The frustrating, stupid, sexy Scotsman.

No wait, you didn’t mean to think that.

Even when you got to the hotel room, you weren’t able to settle down. You couldn’t stay in one place. You’d wander around the room, looking out the window, going into the bathroom and sorting things. Eventually, Alexa asked you what was wrong knowing this wasn’t usual behavior for you.

“Nothing. I’m just restless,” You lied. I’ve spent three of the last four days scrunched inside a car. I just need some air. I think I’m gonna go out for a jog. I’ll try and shower quietly when I get back if you’re asleep.”

You grabbed your hotel key and walked towards the door.

“Okay, thanks. But I want details in the morning,” Alexa smiled as you reached the doorknob.

You didn’t reply to her before leaving the room. You couldn’t verbally admit that she was right about what she was insinuating. In face, you were already mentally yelling at yourself for even considering it. But that didn’t stop your legs from continuing to walk to the elevator. You were thankful the hallway was empty when you stepped off of the elevator. The last thing you wanted was anyone to see you. But you still hesitated once you got to his door, debating on turning around and going back to your own room. But after a moment, you knocked. It didn’t take long for Drew to open the door. Once he saw it was you, he smirked and leaned against the door frame.

“What brings you here princess? Couldn’t sleep?”

You were conflicted. You made it all the way down here. And now you would like for him to let you inside before someone can see you outside of his hotel room at 12:30 in the morning. But, at the same time, that would mean you were inside of Drew’s room. A thought that still made your stomach jump. Finally your mouth was able to speak up, throwing out one of your normal sarcastic replies.

“Are you man enough to help me out with my problem or not McIntyre?” You asked as you crossed your arms over your chest.

Drew dropped his head, slightly laughing before stepping aside and allowing you to enter the room. You walked in, holding your head high, hoping you were coming across as being confident. Because at the moment it felt like your bones were about to turn to jelly and you’d just melt into the floor. You still couldn’t believe that you were here. Because he brought it up. And some part of you thought it was a good idea.

You watched stoically as he shut and locked the door before turning around to you. He pulled his shirt off as he walked closer to you in the dimly lit room. If only he knew just how many times you had fallen asleep at night to this scenario playing in your head. He stopped in front of you. You looked up into his eyes and saw them turn to an icy blue. The energy about him had changed. He wasn’t the charming goofball he usually was. And it was turning all of your bad energy to mush.

“Just so you know, I don’t plan on being gentle with you princess. I’m going to play with you until you break and finally learn some manners, understand? If that’s not something you’re up for, the door is right there. I suggest you use it now.”

For the first time, you spoke to him in a shaky whisper, “I’m okay with that”.

#drew mcintyre #drew mcintyre x reader #drew mcintyre oneshot #drew mcintyre fanfic #wwe fanfiction #drew mcintyre fanfiction #drew galloway #drew mcintyre imagine

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girl-of-many-fandoms · 4 years ago

Note

I was wondering if you'd consider doing a Hotch x plus size reader? Totally fine if you're not up for it! I have this idea where the reader is a tech person like Penelope & she's around the same age. On a number of occasions she'll stay later to finish her work and it's only her & Hotch left. So she starts this cute little friendship where she'll make him coffee before she leaves. That turns into a crush, then she begins to avoiding him cuz she's shy, then he confronts her saying her likes her.

Late Nights

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x PLUS!Reader

Warnings: None

WOWWW this is a long one hope you guys enjoy it 🤗💜

MASTERLIST

-----

“You know, working this late should be against the law for single parents” walking in Hotch’s office I shut the door behind me

“You’re working late again?” he looked up from the file on his desk smiling at me

“My stupid systems chose today of all days to act up, I had to upgrade the software and all the fun stuff” placing the extra coffee cup on his desk I plopped down in the chair opposite me

“It’s taking a while to get back online but hopefully I’ll be out of here in the next hour or so”

For the past couple weeks Hotch had been working late nights and I thought that I’d stay back also in case he needed someone to talk too. As a profiler he sees and deals with a lot of gruesome things that would keep a normal person up all night. At first it was innocent, I’d pop in to check in on him to distract him for a bit or make him his coffee when he insists on staying in the office later than usual but as we grew closer he started opening up more to me. He started talking about the things they saw and did on the case the team had worked on and then we started talking more about Jack and how he’s doing at school, more personal topics

“I know I’m not the most open when it comes to expressing feelings but I just want to say thank you” Aaron took a sip of his coffee before placing the cup down, eyes glued to my frame

“What are you thanking me for?” he smiled and I couldn’t help but swoon a bit. Aaron doesn’t smile much or show us his soft side so it’s nice to see him this relaxed around me

“For being a friend, for working late nights with me and all the coffee” my stomach fluttered as he went on

“The coffee is good” chuckling I brought my cup to my lips and took a sip in order to help hide the blush that heated up my cheeks

“It is, oh I forgot to ask you, Jack has a soccer game this weekend and he insisted that I asked you to be there” he fiddled with his fingers waiting for my reaction

“Of course, I’ll be there”

------

“Of course, I’ll be there. That’s what I told him, oh God what if I’m reading into this too much”

I’m currently pacing the floor of Penelope’s bat cave as we waited for the coroner’s report to come in. My phone buzzed for the tenth time today, looking down at the screen I sighed letting it go to voicemail

“Hotch again? You know he doesn’t smile nor opens up so easily to anyone besides you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he likes you” Penelope got cut off by the ringing phone on her desk

“Speak and be heard oh mighty one”

“Garcia I need you to dig deeper into our victims background” Hotch’s voice filled the room and I immediately sat down

“Sure, anything specific I’m looking for sir?” she started tapping away at her keyboard doing exactly what he said

“We need to find the connection between all three of them”

“Okay sir, I’ll call you back when I have something”

“Penelope wait, don’t hang up” she paused with her finger over the end button looking over at me

“Is Y/N with you?” I frantically motioned for her to say no and thankfully she caught on

“No sir, want me to pass on a message?”

“No, no, uh thanks Garcia” he sounded so defeated and that only made me feel even more guilty. For the past three days I’ve been avoiding Aaron for as much as I could ever since the night in his office, I realized that I was setting myself up for heartbreak. The call ended and she glared at me

“You are hurting that man”

“I know and I feel terrible but I need to put some distance between the both of us”

“He’s in Nevada with the team right now how much more distance do you want?” she deadpanned looking me in the eyes

“It’s complicated alright”

“It really isn’t” she turned back to her set and started working on the case ending our conversation

-----

“Welcome back my heroes!”

Garcia held a box of cupcakes up welcoming the team back as they stepped off the elevator. I stood a few feet behind her smiling at them as they grabbed a cake and filled into the bullpen. I was about to follow behind them when a hand held on to my wrist keeping me in place

“Is everything alright?”

Aaron

“Yeah, everything’s fine, why would they be?” I started rambling removing my hand from his hold, avoiding his gaze

“You say that but I don’t believe you, let’s talk in my office” he opened the door for me and we headed straight to his office. I saw Penelope shoot me a small smile before I entered the room. I took a seat on the sofa as he moved to his desk.

Aaron dropped his go bag on his desk and removed his jacket before joining me on the sofa. He stared into my eyes trying to get a sense of what’s going on, profiling me

“Is there a reason why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you sir” I couldn’t help but pick at my fingernails as nervousness washed over me

“Sir? Y/N, it’s just the two of us and yes, you haven’t even returned any of my calls or texts” I wrecked my brain trying to come up with an excuse but I couldn’t

“I know that there isn’t any other way to say this but, the other night when we were in here I had to tell you something but I didn’t know how you were going to take it, I still don’t-” he rambled scratching the back of his neck

“Aaron” placing my hand on his knee I cut him off, he took my small hand in his gently brushing the back of my hand using his thumb

“I like you” he blurted and I froze, my heartrate sped up the longer we sat here staring at each other

Say something idiot!

“Why me?”

Dear God, you should’ve stayed quiet

“What do you mean why you?”

“I’m not your type Aaron”

“What’s my type then?”

“Someone like Emily, brave, courageous, can actually shoot to save herself, skinny, gorgeous” I mumbled the last two hoping he didn’t hear them but he did

“You don’t have to be skinny to be gorgeous and besides, you are perfect, you’re funny, sweet, caring, determined, charismatic, I could go on” he smiled giving my hand a gentle squeeze as we held each other’s gaze

“Most importantly, you make me feel safe” my breathing hitched as we sat here, neither one of us wanting to break the moment

“I like you too Aaron”

------

The referee blew the whistle ending the soccer match and Jack jumped with glee with his team as they were the winners. I cheered and clapped happy for the little boy who scored one of the winning goals as he ran directly to his father. Smiling I made my way over to the Hotchner boys and Jack broke free from Aaron’s arms and rushed over to me

“Good job buddy, you did so great!” wrapping my arms around the child I kissed the top of his head

“Did you see me score?” he pulled back enough to look up at me and I cupped his flushed cheeks in my palms

“I did and that was an excellent bicycle kick”

“Jack!” one of his teammates called him over for a group photo and he ran off. A pair of arms snaked around my waist pulling me flush against the owner, Aaron

“You did great with them” spinning around I wrapped my arms around his middle

“I did the best I could with a group of ten year olds”

“Thanks for coming it means a lot to me and I know it does to him too”

“No need to thank me, I had a good time listening to chatty Cathy to your left go on about how hot you look in those shorts” he laughed pulling me in closer to him

“Join us for dinner tonight, it’s been a while since he’s seen you and it’ll be good to have you around more”

“Sounds like a plan” pushing myself upwards I kissed him and he immediately responded. I swear I was about to explode from the electricity that flowed through my body from having his lips on mine

We were so wrapped up in our moment that we had forgotten about the crowd of people that surrounded us until they started wolf whistling and cheering us on. Breaking apart my face became heated from the blush that overtook my cheeks. Aaron looked down at me with a boyish grin clearly enjoying the moment

“How’s that for our first kiss?”

“Not quite what I was expecting”

“C’mon let’s head back to my place” taking my hand in his he called out to his son and we headed to his car. The both of them quickly fell into conversation and I must admit, seeing Hotch domesticated has got to be the hottest thing ever

The bond that these two have is very special and I can’t wait to share more moments like this with them

------

HEY GUYS PSA!! If any of you lovely readers would love to tagged in my fics let me know and I’ll gladly add you to the list ❤️

Tag list:

@calm-and-doctor

#criminal minds #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaronhotchnerimagine #aaron hotchner x plus reader

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novelconcepts · 4 years ago

Text

fic: unexpected

a fill for @karatam’s prompt : “Five things Dani realizes she likes in bed (and one thing Jamie realizes she likes about being with Dani).”

It comes as little surprise to Dani Clayton, who has spent most of her life trying not to pay attention to the things her body craves, that time with Jamie has been unlocking some unexpected doors. It’s embarrassing, sometimes, but not in a way that feels too heavy to bear; the more time she spends with Jamie, the more time she spends feeling progressively better in her own skin, the more she’s bound to understand about what makes her tick. It’s kind of nice, actually. Kind of refreshing, finding situations where she doesn’t feel inclined to hold herself rigid, where she can let her guard down and just exhale.

Still, there are some experiences which--until they sneak up on her--she absolutely does not see coming.

There is a rule in their house about cleanliness. Not because Jamie is a terrible mess, by any stretch of the imagination, but because a small space gets out of control fast. Especially given how much time Jamie spends with both hands buried in potting soil, Dani feels it’s important to set some ground rules. Things like “shoes stay on the plastic tray if you’ve been out gardening.” Things like “clothes caked in dirt go straight into the special hamper to get washed first.”

Things like “if you’re going to initiate anything requiring hands on bare skin, you scrub up first.”

Jamie takes it in stride, agrees wholeheartedly that this is the only safe and hygienic approach to life. She kicks off her boots, drops any mud-encrusted flannel in the proper receptacle, and works the grime out from under short nails without pressure.

“I’d do this without the rule,” she tells Dani the first time after this conversation, eyebrows arched. “How filthy d’you think I am, anyway?”

Dani chooses not to dignify this with a response. It’s still early-days, all things considered, and Jamie poking her tongue through her teeth on a word like filthy sends her brain places that aren’t conducive to getting anything done.

Still, there are things that test her carefully-imposed boundaries. Not so much the gardening; gardening and Jamie are a singular entity, a packaged deal Dani was wholly aware of long before falling into the woman’s bed. She sees flowers and root webs and clods of dirt packed into pots and thinks, Yes. That’s Jamie.

It’s the fixing she wasn’t prepared for.

There are things she is better at than Jamie around the house: remembering to pick up groceries, basic human chores like laundry and vacuuming and taking out the trash. And there are the things Jamie has an edge on: hot drinks, building furniture, and repairing just about anything that slips sideways.

“Grew up without a lot to lean on,” she explains while Dani, feeling a little light-headed in a way she can’t fully explain, watches her replace a questionable light fixture. Her hands are nimble and steady, her eyes on the job at hand, but she’s smiling. “You pick up a lot of convenient tricks along the way, life like that.”

Dani, who grew up in a household marked by her mother having “a guy”--usually neighborhood men with bad facial hair who scrubbed her around the head and called her “little lady”--for just about every little hiccup, can only watch with fascination. Jamie, it seems, has a sixth sense for problems. By the end of their first year together, she’s fixed the bathroom sink, the AC unit, innumerable lightbulbs, and the vacuum cleaner. Never once batting an eye. Just a simple smile and a “give it here, then.”

Dani, for her part, tells herself she’s watching closely to learn. To pick up these convenient tricks Jamie mentions like they’re nothing. To be able to one day make similar repairs while Jamie is busy or out of the house.

She tells herself this, even as her skin grows warm and her mouth goes dry, because there is just something about watching Jamie work. Something she can’t put her finger on about the way Jamie tips her head musingly, inspecting every inch of the problem area like her attention belongs nowhere else. She moves methodically, deliberately, never frustrated, never slamming or swearing. Her hands squeeze and slide, her brow furrowed, and Dani...

Likes this.

She keeps it to herself, careful not to distract Jamie from the task at hand, even as her own face flushes at the sight of Jamie working a screwdriver or sifting through a set of drill bits. It’s stupid, she thinks with a hot thread of embarrassment, that her legs are weakening at the mere image of Jamie on her back on the bathroom tile, knees bent, arms working to seal some hidden leak in the piping.

“You want to try?” Jamie asks, head and shoulders in the cabinet below the sink. Dani clears her throat.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Jamie says absently, the muscles of her stomach flexing as she arches for that little extra strength to finish up. Dani leans her forehead against the wall, struggling to find some measure of calm before Jamie can extricate herself and catch sight of the look on her face.

She manages to keep it quiet for months, this strange heat that springs up whenever Jamie’s hands are greasy and her face has that serious cast of inspecting a complicated problem. She might have kept it quiet for months longer--indefinitely, perhaps--if not for Colorado.

Colorado is, like so many of their trips, a spur-of-the-moment decision. They rent a battered Jeep from a questionable agency, intent on seeing the Rockies as man was always intended: hopped up on a decent amount of bad gas station coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and each other. It’s a good day, cheery sun beaming down from a sky scattered with soft clouds. Dani has been having more and more of these kinds of days, and is starting to think maybe this is the new normal. Less fear. Less tension. Just her hand in Jamie’s as they bump over an endless road in the middle of--

“No,” Jamie says in a low, frustrated tone. Dani, who has been gazing distantly out the passenger window, snaps back to reality.

“What’s going on?”

The Jeep is slowing. Jamie steers it toward the side of the road, which is to Dani’s eyes the most abandoned place on earth.

“Something’s off,” Jamie groans. “Engine light came on.”

Engine light came on is one of those phrases Dani intellectually understands is in English, but it might as well not be. She’s grateful for how much Jamie enjoys driving; cars are something of a mystery to her, loud, rattling machines she’d prefer not to ever deal with on her own.

She steps out onto the road now, arms hugged tight around her body, and watches Jamie pop the hood. The day is as warm as it is beautiful, and it isn’t long before sweat is trickling down the back of her neck. Jamie, in jeans and a flannel shirt, rolls the sleeves up past her elbows and grimaces.

“Gonna be a minute, I think. But maybe...”

She’s muttering words Dani wouldn’t understand even if she thought Jamie was speaking to her and not a busted set of gears and pistons. Jamie, thankfully, seems to know what she’s talking about as she pushes the hair out of her eyes, ties a bandana around her head, and sets to work.

She’ll fix it, Dani assures herself, rocking back and forth on her heels in the sunshine. Jamie fixes everything.

And, in the meantime, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with the view. The horizon is endless, the land green and gorgeous and sprawling out as far as she can process. Dani could stand here for hours, head tilted back to take it all in, letting the clean air bathe her face.

She could also, she notes, eyes sliding back to Jamie, watch this for hours. Jamie, up on her toes, an emergency set of tools open on the ground. Jamie, sweat beading on her upper lip and trickling down her temples. Jamie, pink-cheeked, the muscles of her forearms from years of groundswork standing out in sharp relief as she jams a wrench beneath the hood and twists.

It is...very hot out here, Dani thinks dazedly. She snaps her eyes away, searching the sky for birds, searching the world for anything that could be more interesting than the sight of Jamie with grease halfway up to her elbows, a dip of skin tantalizing between her shirt riding up and the waistband of her jeans.

Dani swallows hard. Tries to remember that they are, in fact, currently stranded on the side of a road in Colorado. Tries to remember that they are, in fact, not in a situation that should be excruciatingly appealing.

Jamie makes a low noise in her chest, pulling hard on the wrench. Something in Dani, already strung tight enough to make her pulse race, seems to snap.

“Hey,” Jamie protests as the tool drops from her hand and clatters against the pavement. Dani has her around the wrist, dragging her with firm intent away from the open hood. “Hey, Poppins, I don’t think--”

Dani, unable to stop herself, catches her around the back of the neck and kisses her hard. Jamie’s protests go slack against her lips, her hands windmilling uselessly as she tries and fails to locate somewhere safe to place them.

“I--Dani, what--”

“Can’t explain,” Dani says, muffled, mouth a bit occupied with trying to kiss Jamie stupid. “Just. Need this.”

“Right now?” Jamie asks, plainly bewildered--though, Dani notes, not exactly arguing. Her hands rest gently on Dani’s hips, as though the desire to hang on and the desire not to ruin Dani’s skirt are locked in fervent battle.

“Right,” Dani groans, licking at the sweat running down the side of Jamie’s neck, “now.”

She fumbles them toward the backseat, pausing every couple of steps to push Jamie hard against the car. There’s something about it--something about the sun beating down, and her hand caught between the hard shell of the Jeep and the soft skin at Jamie’s back, and the way Jamie is making surprised breathy sounds against her ear. Something, most of all, about Jamie trying so hard not to get her dirty while being utterly unable to keep her hands to herself.

“There’s a rule,” Jamie says, like she’s reciting a play she couldn’t possibly care less about. “Your rule.”

Dani, pulling the back door open and sliding along the gray leather, shakes her head. “House rule. Don't care.”

Jamie’s laughing, but there's something nervous about it, something like she sort of expects to get into trouble for this. “Poppins, you are...something else today.”

Dani pauses, leaning back on her elbows, watching with dark desire as Jamie climbs in after her. The door latches with a soft click, Jamie hovering on her knees over her in the small space.

“Something okay?” Dani asks, her voice smaller than intended. Jamie grins.

“I’m okay if you’re okay.”

Dani grabs for her again, unable to pin down the roaring pleasure in her chest as Jamie’s smile lands against her skin. Her hands are wild, roaming creatures with their own agenda, sliding under Jamie’s collar, fisting around Jamie’s shirt. When Jamie kisses the hollow of her throat, she sighs, arches, liking the weight of Jamie between her bent knees.

There is a rule about dirty hands, it’s true, and they both know it’s for a reason--which is why, eyes on Dani’s face the whole time, Jamie grasps her by the hips and lifts, shifts, eases Dani until her back is pressed against the window. Jamie hooks her fingers into the waistband of underwear already too ruined to be of use, sliding them down Dani’s thighs, shoving them restlessly into the back pocket of her own jeans.

“Jesus,” she breathes against Dani’s skin, already soaked through with sweat and want. “This much from--”

“Watching,” Dani groans confirmation. One hand is gripping the back of the seat, her knuckles stark against the dark leather. Jamie makes a noise she thinks might be amusement, or utter helpless desire--maybe some mad combination of the two.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for--”

“Jamie,” Dani interrupts, a sharp plea that snaps Jamie’s attention back where it belongs. They can talk about this later, Jamie teasing her for an unexpected mechanic kink, Dani hiding her face and laughing. Right now, she can focus on nothing but Jamie’s hands, creased with engine oil, gripping her thighs. Sliding smooth down to bracket her kneecaps, up to hold her hips steady. Jamie, mouthing at her slowly, trying to make it last, teasing her with soft flicks of her tongue and warm, soft kisses.

“Jamie,” Dani repeats, her voice cracking, her free hand winding in Jamie’s hair and pulling. Jamie concedes, head bobbing gently between her legs, body coiled in a position that will probably feel fantastic tomorrow--but, if she cares, she certainly doesn’t show it. Her fingers dig into Dani’s skin, leaving dark stains behind, her mouth drawing Dani tighter by the second.

Sex with Jamie has never been what Dani would call boring, but something about the sight of her here--eyes closed, breathing hard, fingers pushing Dani’s skirt up as she strains to keep from putting those hands directly between Dani’s legs--has an effect they’ve never quite managed before. Dani, biting hard into the back of her own hand as her hips jerk out of control. Jamie, making the most of the moment, kissing her clean with long, sweet strokes.

“Jesus,” Jamie says again, sitting up and staring at her. “If I’d known--”

“You’d never have finished a repair around the house,” Dani points out, breathing hard, head lolling back against the glass with a light thump.

“You’ve been feeling this at the house?” Jamie looks stunned. “Poppins, you’ve been wanting this for months, and you’ve just been letting me fix things instead of taking you to bed? Where the hell are your priorities?”

“Didn’t want to distract you,” Dani mumbles, the drowsy delight of a good orgasm wrapping comforting hands around her good sense. Jamie’s jaw hangs open.

“Poppins.”

“Mm?”

“Distract me. For the love of god. Distract me.”

Dani doesn’t go back to teaching. It’s not that she doesn’t love it, not that she doesn’t know she’d still be good at it; it’s more that the world is too unpredictable now. That she is too unpredictable now, unable to tell what tomorrow will look like inside her own head. She’s been feeling better, admittedly--Jamie has a way of making the ground stand still under their feet, of leading her by the hand into warmly-lit places where she feels less like there’s something following at her heels--but it’s not the same. Even before the Lady, before Bly, before fleeing to Europe in the first place, teaching had been heavier than school had prepared her for. So many kids, with so many expectations, so many needs one person couldn’t possibly fulfill.

So, no--she doesn’t go back to teaching. Teaching feels like the old Dani in some terribly sad way she can’t define. The new Dani turns her attention toward a different kind of cultivation, toward learning how to make people happy with the art of living things. It’s a creative outlet she hadn’t realized she needs. It brings her closer to Jamie, gives her a better understanding of Jamie’s way of seeing the world. It’s different, but she does love it.

It does not, for all of that, erase old habits.

She doesn’t really realize she’s doing it, at first. Some things are just so naturally ingrained, so much a part of her daily experience, that she doesn’t think about what she’s saying.

Until Jamie just stops and...looks at her.

“What?” Self-consciousness, not a particularly new song, hums under the word. Jamie is gazing at her with head slightly cocked, lip between her teeth.

“Nothing. Nothing, just...”

Dani reels back the last five minutes, searching for whatever might have put this truly unfamiliar look on Jamie’s face. It’s not teasing, exactly; not bothered, either. It’s...pleased?

Jamie had just passed her with a basket under her arm, laundry rescued from the dryer and folded before Dani had even realized they were ready. She had turned, watched Jamie amble by with a spring in her step that said I have done the thing, and the thing is good, and she had said...

“Oh.” She can actually feel the color draining from her face. “I just, uh. I mean. Habit.”

Jamie grins, still looking a little surprised, but not exactly upset. “No, no, it’s fine, Poppins. Got no argument with being a good girl now and then.”

She winks, throwing an exaggerated little swing into her walk as she makes off toward the bedroom, and Dani sags against the couch. Has she done this before? Has she been absently calling Jamie a good girl upon the completion of little tasks this whole time, and only just realized?

It is a very particular kind of embarrassing, and Dani does not have the first idea what to do with it.

“Have I been doing that?” she asks over dinner, picking awkwardly at her pasta and studiously not looking Jamie in the eye. Jamie, midway through pouring a glass of wine, pauses.

“Doing what?”

“Calling--uh--I mean--”

“Praising me for my efforts about the house?” Jamie is too pleased about this, Dani has decided. Entirely too pleased for her own good.

“Hey, I can take it back,” she mutters. Jamie snorts, setting a full glass beside Dani’s place and kissing the top of her head.

“Uh uh. I’ve earned my gold stars, Poppins. Pry ‘em from my cold dead hands.”

Dani downs half the glass in a single swallow, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Jamie is really laughing now, the full-body laugh she reserves for poking fun at Dani with absolute affection.

“Oh, don't be like that. It’s sweet. Can’t say anyone’s had nice words of the like for me much before you.”

Dani looks up to find Jamie leaning across the table, her expression heartbreakingly earnest. The tension melts slowly out of her body; she realizes she’s made a fist under the table, her thumb tucked into her fingers. Old habits, indeed.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about things like that,” Jamie says, her voice softening. Her hand slides under the table to close over Dani’s flexing fingers, like she knows what Dani was just doing, that Dani was just sliding back to anxieties she’s long tried to bury. “I take no offense at being called good at anything where you’re concerned, Dani. Trust me.”

She does, very much, but even so, she tries to keep a handle on it. Isn’t it condescending, she wonders, speaking to Jamie that way? Why on earth would Jamie appreciate a pat on the head, a gentle assertion of good work?

She gets it under control. Reminds herself she is not a teacher anymore, and Jamie is very appropriately an adult who doesn’t need to be confirmed in her choices at every turn.

She gets it under control--until one night. One night, spent celebrating an exceptional year at the shop, with too much wine in her system and too many hours spent in a too-public setting to be allowed to touch Jamie properly. They’d sat at a table with a few well-meaning shopkeepers from down the street, and they’d laughed, and drank to hard work and good fortune, and all the while, she’d been watching Jamie out of the corner of her eye. Jamie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair mussed from hands Dani understood as wanting to be on her body, sifting through her hair. Jamie, chain-smoking cigarettes Dani ached to take from her and place between her own lips, if only to taste Jamie.

By the time they make it home, her hands are tingling, her body desperate. Jamie, watching her with the smug smile of a woman who knows Dani’s hand has been flexing between her own knees for two hours, makes a show of stretching. Her shirt pulls up from her belt, flashing a glimpse of stomach.

“Bit tired,” she says. “What do you think, time for bed?”

Dani makes a powerfully undignified noise, and Jamie’s laughter rings bright in the otherwise-silent apartment. She catches Dani by the hand, eyes shining.

“Honestly, Poppins, you are too damn easy.”

They fall into bed--into couch, really, the bed being far too many steps away--and the world shrinks to the polished buttons of Jamie’s shirt popping open under her tripping fingers, the material of Jamie’s slacks shoved awkwardly down her legs, the trace of Jamie’s tongue around her earlobe as she tries desperately to focus on intricate details like zippers. Jamie, bless and damn her, never seems this clumsy, even with all the wine in the world in her blood.

“I like it,” Jamie breathes, grinning. “You only get clumsy when you’re desperate.”

She climbs over Dani, curling behind her to better get at the zip on her dress. Dani leans back, dizzy with the rush of Jamie pressed against her back, grinding her hips slowly as if to intentionally drive Dani up the wall. The dress peels away, and Dani hears herself swear.

“Could you go any slower.”

“Could if I tried,” Jamie murmurs, nipping at her neck. “Why? Don’t like it?”

She splays a hand beneath Dani’s breasts, pressing in tight against her back, rocking against her with little sign of picking up the pace and putting those hands where they’re most wanted. Dani groans, lets her head fall back against Jamie’s shoulder.

“You,” she says without thinking, “are being a bad girl tonight.”

Jamie freezes. Dani, head buzzing with the aggravation of Jamie playing her little game, Jamie’s fingers toying across her belly, doesn’t hear herself. Not at first. Not until Jamie says in a voice almost like a growl, “That so?”

Oh, Dani thinks. Oh no. I did it again.

“Tell me, please,” Jamie goes on, hand slinking lower, “how I can get back into your good graces.”

It should be weird. It should be so uncomfortable, slamming the brakes on this whole evening--but Jamie’s hand is on a mission, Jamie’s hips rocking against her faster, and Dani finds she doesn’t care nearly as much as she should.

“You--know--”

“Tell me anyway.” Jamie’s hand is circling, refusing to continue its descent, and Dani almost wants to laugh. This is insane. This is insane, and stupid, and if she doesn’t get Jamie to keep going, she might just kill her.

She turns her head, finds Jamie looking at her with pupils blown and lips parted. She reaches back, grabs Jamie by the jaw.

“Touch me,” she says, her voice firmer than it’s been in a long time. “Now.”

Jamie’s eyes roll back in her head, her fingers dipping between Dani’s legs with obedient speed. Dani sighs, moving to meet her strokes.

“More,” she hears herself say in that same commanding voice, and Jamie shudders. “Harder.”

She’s never done this before; it’s never crossed her mind to tell Jamie what to do, how to touch her, what she needs. Jamie is intuitive, naturally taking the lead on nights like these, and she’s damn good at it--but this feels incredible in an entirely new way. Her hand slides down to join Jamie’s, curling around Jamie’s fingers as they slide in and out in a series of increasingly rough thrusts. She finds herself arching back, Jamie’s hips bucking as she strains for friction of her own, and when Jamie curls her fingers deep, she curls with her.

“Fuck,” Jamie groans, shifting her hand out from between Dani’s legs and replacing it instantly between her own. Dani rolls, pushing her flat against the cushions, grabbing hold of Jamie’s wrist and stilling her fingers.

“That,” she breathes, lips brushing Jamie’s softly enough to burn, “was very good work. Gold star.”

Jamie whimpers, letting her hand drop away so Dani can return the favor. It doesn’t take long at all; Jamie’s pretty far gone even before Dani brushes against her with a hand that no longer feels clumsy.

“That,” Jamie says when they’ve collapsed in a sweat-slick mess of limbs, “was new. Teacher voice always just sort of on tap, huh?”

Dani resists the suddenly-overwhelming urge to hide her face. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Don’t much care,” Jamie says, rather happily. “It works for me, as it turns out. I am gonna line these gold stars up on the fridge.”

There is something engrossing about being wanted, something Dani never really understood before Jamie. Being wanted before wasn’t exactly a positive sensation; men looking her up and down in malls and bars, eyes like brands on her skin, made her feel like crawling under a table. Women, on the rare occasion she crossed one who met her eyes, were somehow even worse--their smiles were thin, brittle reminders that Dani wasn’t Normal. That, if she ever were to jump from that ledge, these women wouldn’t be there to catch her. Their want was an ice bath, a horrible reminder that there was something wrong with her ability to be wanted.

And, with Edmund, it was worst of all, because she wanted to want it. Wanted to want the way his eyes started following her out of rooms before they were even in their teens. Wanted to want the way his hands would reach for her as they grew older, as his body began sending signals that she was right, and hers developed an alarm bell that only ever screamed stop, please, go away.

She should have listened to that alarm bell sooner, probably, but Edmund--for all the horrible suffocating sense of him draped over her life--was also a shield against the rest. With Edmund’s arm around her, she felt caged, but strange men let their eyes slide off her like rain. With Edmund kissing her cheek, she felt wrong, but strange men stopped trying to brush up against her skin.

The line, however, she had to draw somewhere, and she drew it at marks. Eddie accepted her unwillingness to climb into his bed as classic “good girl” behavior; Danielle, he thought with ease of understanding, wanted to wait until they were married. Sure, fine, good. His mother would approve, and hers would leave them both un-defenestrated by their wedding day. Perfect for everyone.

Still, he wanted to touch her. Wanted to press his lips to her skin. Wanted to make sure she--and anyone else who chanced a look--knew he was always there, etched into her.

She hated it. Hated the way he’d lean back after leaving a hickey hot on her neck, looking faux-apologetic and more than a little smug. Hated the way, no matter how many times she told him it wasn’t professional for an elementary school teacher to stroll in with love bites, he always seemed to “forget.”

She hated being marked.

With Edmund.

With Jamie, it’s an entirely different story.

“Shit,” Jamie sighs. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Dani, shirt slung over the back of a kitchen chair, shifts in Jamie’s lap. There’s something about being able to do this at their own leisure, about Sunday brunch fading into charred bacon and lost-chance waffles as she and Jamie sink into long slow kisses on the other side of the kitchen, that she thinks she’ll never be over.

Jamie, looking more than a little irritated with herself, is now brushing soft fingertips across Dani’s collarbone. Even that much sends sharp little thrills up her spine. She tips her chin down, tries to see the spot Jamie is pressing against.

“Left a mark?”

“Yeah.” Jamie sighs again. “Sorry, Poppins, I don’t know my own goddamn--”

Dani laughs. She really doesn’t, is the thing. Jamie, who couldn’t be more unlike Eddie if she tried, genuinely doesn’t ever mean to mark her skin. And it’s not like it happens often. She’s normally pretty good about self-control in ways Dani suspects have to do with a history of punishment and consequence following every action.

Jamie is grounded. Jamie is restrained.

Except when Jamie isn’t. And, lately, Jamie has been restrained with her less and less.

It started the day she told Dani she was in love with her. A thing Jamie had been saying without words for a long time, Dani knew, but it was so good to hear the phrase fall from her lips anyway. So reassuring, to see the nerves in Jamie’s face, the way Jamie’s eyes shone with a desperate need to make Dani understand.

That day, in the back room of the shop, Jamie had marked her for the first time. Heat still pools in her belly when she thinks of it, even now: how Jamie had shoved her up against the door, hands fevered, mouth a hot wet slide against her throat. Jamie’s touch had felt good; Jamie’s devotion, even better. And something about the sum of it--of being in the shop, where precautions had been taken, but they were still rather public, of Jamie’s nerves still holding the reins, of Jamie’s words still fluttering between them: pretty in love with you, it turns out--had both of them nearly high. By the time they broke apart, giggling and heaving for air, the deed was done. A single red mark, low on Dani’s neck, burning bright for anyone to see.

Jamie had touched it lightly, kissed it gently, face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean--”

And, somehow, that had been the thing to do it. The thing that sent Dani’s arousal over the edge. Not just Jamie leaving the mark on her skin, but the apology in Jamie’s eyes as she realized. Jamie, never intending to force ownership. Jamie, never striving to show the world she owned Dani’s body.

Every time since, she’s tried to explain it to Jamie, tried to bring clarity of word to the hot pulse of pleasure she feels. How there’s a wild delight to watching Jamie want her. How Jamie is, as the time passes, getting worse at pretending to be cool about it.

It isn’t kind, exactly. Isn’t the nice, sweet, orderly thing to do about it. But all the same, Dani finds she’s having trouble not coaxing Jamie along when it’s clear she’s starting to lose control.

She’s taken to loitering in the bathroom while Jamie showers, for example. Most days, it’s innocent; Dani will post up on the counter with a book, or a cup of tea, and they’ll just make small talk through the thin curtain. Jamie will wash quickly, with no sign of needing assistance, and Dani will hand her a towel when the water shuts off. Perfectly fine. Perfectly civil.

But there are days--usually when the shop has been particularly stressful, when customers have been needy and shipments have been delayed--when Jamie will gesture for her to follow under the spray. Days where Jamie’s nerves are so frazzled, her control over all the tiny little details of owning a business so slim, that she’ll invite Dani to join her. These days, with Jamie loving her under hot water, with Jamie whispering her name into the steam, Dani thinks it is good to be wanted. So good, to be the small bright spot of control in the world for Jamie, who likes understanding how things work, who likes being able to set things right. With her back against the shower wall, Jamie’s mouth sucking sharp hot bites into her shoulder as her fingers stroke and rub between her legs, Dani thinks there’s nothing better than giving Jamie that measure of control.

She notices it other times, too--usually when the world is bigger than the two of them can stand. When a snowstorm blocks off the whole street, stranding them inside, and the power goes, and it’s just the two of them moving together under a stack of blankets to make their own warmth. When it’s Jamie, fearful of how long it will take to dig them out again, leaving sharp, nervous marks on her breasts only to be dragged back up by the hair to kiss her as her fingers work Dani to orgasm.

Or when they make the mistake of turning on the news, signs of war and violence and politicians making unacceptable calls about the bodies of their constituents, and the only way to bring Jamie back from the brink of hopelessness is to coax her into shutting it all out. Pinned against the counter with her hands braced, with Jamie biting hard and kissing soft, Dani forgets for a long stretch of matching heartbeats that anyone else exists outside their walls.

Sometimes, the mark is gone by morning. Sometimes, Jamie ruefully kisses the spot on her throat, the underside of her jaw, her breast, and says, “You really should yank on my hair or something to stop me.”

Dani can't quite find the words to tell her how much she likes it. How the brief flare of delicious pain, soothed so soon after by Jamie’s tongue, the pad of Jamie’s thumb, Jamie’s soft embarrassment, grounds her in the strangest way. Not because it shows the world anything--she’s good at wearing sweaters that hide the spots nicely, to keep anyone from questioning her “roommate” in the aftermath--but because it shows that Jamie doesn’t need to keep her head when Dani’s around. That, sometimes, the act of giving Jamie full control over their bed and the way their bodies come together, feels as good as the first nervous time Jamie had said she loved her.

Jamie shows her with every act, every day, that this is love. Jamie in these moments of unrestrained passion is showing her something else. That she’s safe with Dani. That she doesn’t need to hold anything apart from Dani anymore.

And there is something else to it, as well. Something entirely different. Something about the rare occasion she rolls Jamie onto her back, holds her wrists to the mattress, gazes into Jamie’s eyes in search of permission. Jamie likes to give, in all ways that matter, but sometimes, Dani likes this, too: to give back more than she takes. To grant Jamie not just control, but release.

On this kind of night, left hand pinning Jamie in place, right hand setting a brisk, rough pace between damp thighs, Dani lowers her mouth to Jamie’s throat. She kisses slow, tasting sweat and that undefined thing that is Jamie alone, and waits for Jamie to chase her hand. Waits for Jamie to writhe beneath her. Waits for the moment where the right twist, the right pressure, sends Jamie over the edge. Then, only then, does she bite down.

Because Jamie is embarrassed by marking her, but she’s seen the way Jamie looks at the rare mark she receives in the mirror. The way the collar of her t-shirt will slip, revealing a maroon blemish on pale skin. The way Jamie’s eyes grow dark, her body leaning against the counter like she’s suddenly lost all the strength in her knees.

She really does prefer giving Jamie control, giving Jamie the gift of building a safe space for them both to land. But every so often, it is beyond worth it, to see the look of surprised delight in Jamie’s face when she flips the script.

There are things, though. Things she didn’t know, before Jamie. Things she’d never thought to glance at, before Jamie.

“I don’t know about this,” she says. Jamie doesn’t look the least bit perturbed.

“It’s only an idea, Poppins. Can absolutely veto it at any time.”

Dani frowns. “I don’t--I mean, what made you think--”

She’s going about this all wrong. Jamie shakes her head, some of that old shuttered guard dropping into her expression in a way Dani decidedly does not like.

“I’ve embarrassed you,” Jamie says. “I’m sorry, Dani, I wasn’t trying to--”

“No, It’s just...won’t somebody notice?”

Two women walking into a shop like that. Two women looking around a shop like that, having conversations about what they’d like or like nothing to do with. Somebody is bound to overhear, Dani thinks. Bound to report it down the line, and what then?

They’re in San Francisco, and Dani knows that’s the main reason Jamie’s even talking about this. They’re in San Francisco, have just bought a brownie that, yes, makes her feel more inclined than usual to drop her guard. She’d thought maybe they’d partake of that brownie in the comfort of their hotel room, that she’d follow the buzzing of her body right into the bed with Jamie, and that would be their afternoon spoken for. It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Jamie, evidently, has other ideas.

Which is how Dani, with a bit of a body high and the grip of anxiety tight around her throat, finds herself gazing at a Californian sex shop.

“We do not,” Jamie says, watching her carefully, “and I cannot stress this enough, Poppins, we do not have to go in.”

“There’s...stuff in there.” The brownie is certainly doing its work. Dani swallows hard, searching for words more befitting of the situation. “Toys and things.”

Jamie looks as though she's suddenly trying very hard not to laugh. She seems considerably less high thus far, less inclined to disappear into this sidewalk if only someone were to let go of her arm and allow her to lie down.

“It’s the brave new frontier,” Jamie says, managing to keep her amusement tamped down in the face of Dani’s wide eyes. “We’re in the 90s now, Dani Clayton. The world is changing.”

“It is,” Dani repeats in a stage whisper that sounds very loud to her own ears, “a sex shop. In California.”

“Bit better stocked than one in England, I’d wager,” Jamie says through a smile that might yet dissolve into giggles. Dani squints at her, trying to stop the street from performing a gentle rotation around her.

“Whose idea was this again?”

“The brownie,” Jamie says, “was yours, actually. Haven’t tried this, Jamie, that’s what you said. We’re on an adventure, Jamie. I thought a nice spot of grass would do the trick fine enough, but...”

Dani slaps at her shoulder, misses somehow, almost tips over. Jamie catches her around the middle, and there’s a flash--the briefest, there-and-gone flash--of that night. Of Jamie holding her up. Of watching the world spin for a very different reason.

Life, she thinks with a stab of unease, is very short.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Jamie repeats, a bit bewildered. She adjusts her grip, helping Dani find her feet again so she can let go. California is better than most anywhere else--at least this part of California--but it still isn’t good to give the universe an open shot.

“We can...” She can’t say it. Isn’t quite that high. “We can--”

“Explore,” Jamie supplies. “See the sights. It’s an adventure, after all.”

And it does feel adventurous. There is a bravery in Dani Clayton she never seems able to predict--the things she’s capable of, the things she even finds she enjoys, tend to come out of left field and catch her unawares. Some of these things have a tendency to work out better than others.

(Example: kissing Jamie. Truly the best snap decision she’s ever made. Inviting a ghost into her body? Maybe not so high on the list.)

But the sun is bright, and the buzz beneath her skin feels good, and there is no sign of ghosts in California. Just a surprisingly well-lit shop with a clerk who gives them a bored nod and a tiny hand gesture that says, Go on, couldn’t care less what you do, long as you’ve got cash. Dani smiles at him, too wide, and wonders if he’s like them. If he, too, has spent a lifetime unable to show off in the world.

There isn’t much time to think about it, not with Jamie taking her by the sleeve and guiding her through neatly arranged aisles. There are costumes here that make Dani’s skin go white-hot to imagine trying to be serious wearing. There are items designed to vibrate, items designed to bind wrists, items designed for things she really feels better off not thinking about at all.

“What d’you think?” Jamie asks at one shelf, eyebrows raised, and Dani thinks she’s joking. Probably joking. Must be joking.

“Have you--I mean, I’d have no idea how to--”

“You could,” Jamie says in a low voice that sends a shiver down her spine. How Jamie can do this to her without even trying, even after years together, she can’t explain. Jamie isn’t even working at it now; her hands are tucked into her pockets, her head tilted pensively as she considers the array of options laid out before them. She’s barely even looking at Dani.

“I could,” Dani repeats weakly, “what?”

“Try it out,” Jamie explains. “If you wanted. If you were interested. But that’s not really what I’m suggesting. See...I know how they work. I’ve, uh...I mean, if you’re interested in...that.”

Her voice trails off, her eyes darting to steal a brief glance at Dani’s face, and Dani’s not entirely sure what her face is even doing. Judging by the way Jamie licks her lips, she suspects it isn’t subtle.

“Interested,” she says in a very small voice, gripping Jamie’s hand with convulsive force. “Yeah. Little bit.”

They don’t try it out in the hotel room; that is, Dani says once the brownie has worn off some, entirely too bold, even for an adventure. They make absolutely certain the package is tucked away in the bottom of the suitcase, as far as possible from prying eyes that never come to call. They don’t even talk about it again until they’re safely home.

Dani’s suddenly so nervous, it’s like the first time. Like stumbling up to her room with Jamie pressed close behind, every touch the kind of electric she’d thought might take her out before she had a chance to get Jamie’s clothes off. She walks into their apartment, this place they’ve called home for almost four years, and she thinks, I have never been terrified here before.

Jamie, seeming to sense her mood, sets the bag by the door and pulls her into an embrace. She kisses the side of her head. “Hey. We don’t have to. Can just put it in the closet for a rainy day.”

Dani senses the truth of this statement, that Jamie is perfectly fine pretending they never bought the thing at all. That Jamie would be perfectly fine sliding into bed with her like always, relying on skilled hands and searching tongue, loving Dani with everything she’s got as she has for years. Jamie would be okay with this. Jamie would never push.

But life is short, and sometimes, a person can surprise herself.

Jamie switches the lights off. Jamie almost never switches the lights off, not since the first time she ever told Dani she was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. Still, Dani is relieved. There is something reassuring about Jamie’s willingness to take her hands in the dark, about Jamie’s eagerness to please her binding tight to Jamie’s devotion to keeping her safe.

“Slow,” she promises Dani, sliding into bed and cradling her face. She is still just Jamie, Dani recognizes, though anxiety is playing tricks on her heart rate. Just Jamie’s hands, soft on her cheeks, brushing her hair back. Just Jamie’s mouth, raining small, light kisses across her face. Waiting for her to decide how far this goes.

And Dani would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous--if she said the brush of cloth harness around Jamie’s hips and the silicon between her legs wasn’t a surprise, even knowing what to expect. She would be lying, too, if she said it wasn’t a thrill. That Jamie is just laying alongside her in familiar sheets, thumb drawing soft arcs across her cheekbone, down the line of her jaw, tipping her head back so Jamie can kiss her neck. That Jamie is touching her like always, not pushing, not rushing, fingers playing along her skin like she’s the world’s most well-loved instrument.

Jamie, breathing soft words into every kiss. Jamie, exhaling, “Lead the way, okay? Tell me. Anything you want.”

Dani finds her own hand sliding down, exploring the familiar curve of Jamie’s neck, fingering the chain that rests against her collarbones, drawing down, down, until she’s taking a handful of something not Jamie in the least. Testing its weight against her palm. Curling her fingers loosely. Jamie, though this object is not possessed of skin or nerve endings, sucks a breath in through her teeth anyway. Like Dani taking the time to explore is doing something maybe Jamie herself can’t even explain.

“Okay?” she says, breath warm on Dani’s skin, and Dani nods. She finds her body is searching Jamie’s out, pressing in close, and Jamie’s hand is covering hers. Even as she moves Dani gently to her back, even as her hips are coming to rest against Dani’s, her hand is there. A grounding force, as ever. Guiding in.

Dani draws a hot breath, knees bent, and Jamie pauses. Moves only when Dani’s eyes open and she nods, one arm around Jamie’s neck, pulling her down to kiss her parted lips.

“Slow,” she agrees, and Jamie makes a noise she likes more than anything else in the world as she shifts her hips, slides all the way in. The world is dark around them, made up of little more than the careful rock of Jamie’s body against hers, the instinctive way her own legs come up to pull Jamie deeper, the wonderfully small, uncontrolled noise she can hear herself making against Jamie’s shoulder. The method is foreign, but it’s still Jamie’s body behind each thrust, still Jamie’s rhythm making her whimper and clutch at Jamie’s neck.

They move together, and it’s been four years, four years of learning every inch of how Jamie is capable of moving with her, but Dani finds this is something other. Something perfectly matched. Not better, not a completion she’s never found before--Jamie has never been lacking--but new, anyway.

She hears her own hitching breaths, hears the fevered, reverent way Jamie says her name over and over, the bed knocking against the wall again and again. Jamie, true to her word, goes slow the whole way, until Dani is biting her own lip against a cry, until Dani is clenching and shuddering under her.

“Good kind of adventure?” Jamie asks, having carefully extricated herself, stripped off the addition, curled up against Dani’s chest. Dani hums.

“Thank you.”

Jamie raises her head. “For what?”

Dani mulls it over, her body spent, her mind already on its way to sleep.

“For,” she says at last, nuzzling closer, “not getting sick of me. Not getting sick of walking with me through the parts I’m not...prepared for.”

She doesn’t say what she means--that, someday, the parts she isn’t prepared for won’t be trying a new toy in bed--and knows she doesn’t have to. Jamie signed on for the whole adventure the day she took Dani’s hand, kissed her knuckles, promised her company for good or for ill.

There’s a promise like that, Dani thinks blearily as she sinks into sleep. For better or worse. People say that to the person they’re going to...

Living in America when you can’t share the love of your life with the world is, sometimes, a lot more frustrating than Dani would have given it credit for before finding Jamie. Back in her old life, walking around with Edmund’s hand possessively wrapped around her waist, she’d felt like no one should want to lean into PDA. It was embarrassing, she felt. Horribly awkward, having someone else’s arm around your shoulders as you tried to fall into step with their much longer legs, or trying to find the right produce at the grocery store with someone insisting you hold their hand. She’d thought it would be a relief, in its own horrible way, not to have that opportunity.

And then Eddie was gone, and Jamie’s was the hand in the grocery store, the arm hesitating before reaching her shoulders. Now? Dani gets it. Dani gets it, and can’t have it, and it makes her crazy.

She thinks Jamie knows this. Knows Jamie, too, longs for a world where no one would look twice if they curled close together in a movie theater, or lay with Dani’s head pillowed in Jamie’s lap at the park. Jamie wants the constant contact at least as much as Dani does, because tactile environments are where Jamie shines.

It is, before Jamie ever said the words aloud, how Dani knew for a fact Jamie loves her.

It is, before Jamie ever admitted as much, how she knew for a fact Jamie has chosen this for good and for all.

And it is, as time marches on and strangers remain staunchly bigoted, making her crazy not to be able to embrace.

Jamie feels it, too, she knows, but Jamie has a very particular way of coping with her inability to just behave normally with Dani in social situations. A way that is, in its own way, also driving Dani crazy.

She just keeps getting more and more handsy.

The thing is, she’s doing it in the most absent-minded way possible, like Dani has watched girls--straight girls, girls who are allowed to cuddle close to other women and touch their hair and play with their jewelry without anyone caring to judge--do her whole life. In ways Dani herself can’t imagine. Jamie will just sidle up behind her, hand brushing her shoulder and falling away again before anyone can question it. She’ll touch two fingers lightly to the soft inner stretch of Dani’s wrist to get her attention at dinner, and by the time Dani’s fully registered it, her hand is gone, flagging down a waiter.

At first, Dani thought she was doing it on purpose. A kind of game to keep them entertained in boring public situations. She’d thought it was another brand of adventure, of Jamie being comfortable in her skin so long, she feels capable of sneaking past strangers.

Now, after weeks of increasing torment, she thinks Jamie is just doing this. Somehow toeing the line between what is dangerous and what is fraying at Dani’s sanity.

“How are you doing that?” she asks when Jamie brushes the tips of her fingers just under Dani’s blouse, catching the strip of skin before her jeans begin, though they’ve got seven customers milling around the shop. Jamie looks confused.

“How am I doing what?”

“You’re--” Dani bites down on the words as old Mrs. Morgan, who comes in twice a month for arrangements to present to her daughter-in-law, shuffles up to the counter. Jamie smiles her best customer-service smile, as polished and somehow genuine as anything, and sets to work ringing her up. Dani, free for the moment, leans back with thumbs folded tight into her fists.

“Sorry,” Jamie says a few minutes later, once more wearing that lightly-perplexed look she gets when Dani points out something of which she has not been conscious. “What’ve I been doing, now?”

“You’ve been...” Dani makes a concerted effort to lower her voice, which seems like a wise idea right until Jamie takes another step and bends her head to hear the next words. She’s right there, barely three inches away, and Dani’s never clenched her fists so hard to keep from grabbing at thin black suspenders. “Touching me. In public.”

“Have I?” Jamie looks genuinely startled. “More than is normal, you mean?”

Dani shakes her head, unable to stomach the difference between what is normal for them and what is normal for women who are not sleeping together. Not in love. Not sharing every inch of a life that deserves to have songs written about it.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie says. “Honestly, Dani, I didn’t mean--am I making you uncomfortable?”

You’re making me want you, Dani thinks helplessly, in places I absolutely cannot have you. Which is, in its own way, worse.

“I’ll be more careful,” Jamie assures her, completely missing the point. She reaches as if to touch Dani’s elbow, catches herself, smiles wryly. “A lot more careful.”

Dani wants to tell her that isn't what she wants, isn’t what she’s ever wanted, that there’s only so much time in the world for careful--but that’s the fire talking, the one running through her blood each time Jamie looks up from repotting flowers and gives her a little once-over, a wink. The real world requires careful. The real world requires walking lightly, hands swinging a little apart.

The real world requires, when Jamie leans over her to recover paper towel from a higher shelf, breasts pressing into Dani’s back, her to keep her goddamned head.

It requires, when Jamie reaches around her for a drinking fountain in the park, bare skin of her arm pressed flush to Dani’s, her to keep her goddamned self-control in check.

It requires, when Jamie laughs and bumps close in line at the airport, her fingers brushing the hair behind Dani’s ear to keep it out of her eyes, for Dani to keep her goddamned pulse from skittering into adrenaline overdrive.

It’s been years, she reminds herself furiously as they settle in on the plane. They’re off to see Owen for the first time in ages, and it’ll be good to get away--there have been feelings she can’t collate inside her head, dreams in black and white she wakes from gasping. A little time away should help bring her back down.

Back down from worrying over ghosts, anyway.

Jamie’s wandering hands, on the other hand...

“Jamie,” she hisses, because airplane seats are really not spacious, and though they don’t have a seatmate on the aisle, there’s an elderly couple across the way with a perfect view of Jamie’s hand resting on her knee. Jamie looks down, jumps a little, tucks the offending hand under her own leg.

“Shit. Don’t know what’s wrong with me...”

Nothing, Dani wants to say, is wrong with you. It’s them. They’re wrong for asking us to hide. They’re wrong for asking me to ever pretend, even for a second, that you’re not the most important person in my life.

“It’s all right,” she whispers instead, like the pressure of Jamie’s palm sliding off her kneecap hasn’t left scorch marks. She closes her eyes, leans her head back. There’s a long flight ahead for someone already on fire. A long flight, and she thinks with truly feral madness, There’s a bathroom. Small. Cramped. But we could fit, maybe. I could get her in there, maybe.

She lets the image unspool for a moment: Jamie propped against a tiny airplane sink, muffling filthy sounds against her arm, Dani on her knees before her. No. No, best put that away for now. Even if they weren’t caught, by some insane miracle, they’d just have a bigger problem afterward. A problem labeled we’ve proven we’re willing to test this.

Dani isn’t, not really. Not if there’s a chance of blowing up their whole life.

Still, it’s hard to scrub the idea away. Jamie is looking at her with some concern, and it’s fair: Dani’s aware her cheeks are pink, her breath coming in sharp hitches. She forces a smile.

“You all right?” Jamie asks quietly. “Don’t feel sick, do you?”

“Not sick,” Dani says. She presses her lips into a thin line, gaze flicking unintentionally from Jamie’s eyes to her mouth, and understanding breaks slowly across Jamie’s face.

“Ah.” She looks so smug. Dani wishes that made her want Jamie any less.

“Don’t tease,” she mutters. “Can’t help it.” She really can’t, either. Jamie’s been there, right there, touching her everywhere for such short bursts, but the shop has been crazy. They’ve been tired. There hasn’t been any real time together in far too long.

Jamie looks at her, a long look that Dani thinks for a heart-stopping second will end in her simply saying, “Fuck it” and leaning in to kiss Dani on this plane. Can’t, she warns her silently. Can’t do that, Jamie, because if you start, I won’t be able to stop--

“Bit chilly,” Jamie says conversationally to someone over Dani’s head. She turns, catching sight of an airline stewardess just as Jamie adds, “Wouldn’t say no to a blanket, if there’s one handy.”

Oh, she’s made a joke, Dani thinks, staring fixedly at the ceiling. Heaven help me, she’s made a goddamn Owen pun, and they don’t even know.

The blanket, when it arrives, is thick, made of a somewhat scratchy dark gray material. Jamie spreads it laboriously across her own lap first, then makes a show of looking at Dani.

“You cold? Only, this is huge, and I’d feel terribly selfish hogging it the whole trip.”

Across the aisle, one of their elderly neighbors nods as though Jamie is the wisest, kindest person she’s ever seen in the wild. Jamie gives a returning nod, says blithely, “Ask for a blanket, flight’s always frigid once we get going.”

She’s pulling the blanket across Dani’s lap now, somehow making it look as though her hands are not sliding up Dani’s thigh in the process. Dani nearly bites her tongue trying not to respond.

She does believe, with her whole heart, that Jamie did not mean to start this. That Jamie’s wandering hands in public are entirely a thing of habit built at home. Jamie is always touching her at the apartment, always squeezing her arm or stroking her cheek or kissing whatever part of her is within reach. It’s the most natural thing in the world. She certainly hasn’t been putting them at risk on purpose.

But right now? Right now, on this plane, tucking the blanket carefully around Dani so there’s no way prying eyes can catch a glimpse of what’s going on beneath it?

Jamie is absolutely doing this on purpose.

“Are you crazy?” she hisses, trying to look as though she isn’t seconds from flying out of her own skin. Jamie is smiling so calmly, so rationally, tucking her hands under the blanket.

“Nope. Just chilly, as I said. Aren't you?”

Dani thinks she’s never been warmer in her entire life, not with Jamie’s rebellious left hand dragging the skirt up over her knees. From an outside perspective, it’s impossible to see; Jamie looks perfectly calm. Even friendly, should anyone catch her eye. She smiles like she doesn’t have Dani’s skirt rucked nearly to her waist.

She smiles like her hand isn’t sliding down the curve of Dani’s thigh now, cresting against the front of cotton underwear.

“Jamie,” Dani breathes. Jamie leans over on the pretense of trying to glance into the aisle for persons unknown. Her lips graze Dani’s ear.

“Keep quiet. Just pretend you’re looking out the window.”

Looking out the window, Dani thinks wildly, right. Like nothing’s going on under the noses of their fellow passengers. Like nothing whatsoever is happening under this blessedly-thick blanket, Jamie’s left hand tracing shapes into the apex of her groin. Jamie, with the calmest goddamn smile she’s ever seen, saying, “This is going to be good for us, y’know. Haven’t been out to see the sights in ages. America’s really gotten under my skin...”

How, thinks Dani, fists clenched against her own thighs under the blanket, is she talking? How can she possibly be holding a perfectly sane, perfectly serene conversation with her fingers sliding up, pulling aside the elastic of Dani’s underwear, moving the material aside just enough to press against slick skin. Dani swallows hard enough to hurt. Her own fingers are leaving impressions against her legs, bruises she’d rather be digging into Jamie’s skin.

“You’ll like it,” Jamie says in a placid, low voice, like her fingers aren’t currently tracing a spot particularly wet and warm. Like Dani’s hips aren’t twitching as she fights the urge to press into Jamie’s hand. Like she doesn’t know Dani’s nails are biting into her own thighs, dragging grooves that will burn later.

“Jamie.”

“Mm?” Like she doesn’t know. She’s grinning a crooked, cheerful little grin that makes Dani want to kiss her blind. If only they weren’t on a plane, if only there weren’t so many damn people around, she’d be out of this seat and riding Jamie’s lap, paying her back for this, making her squirm--

“You,” Dani says through clenched teeth as Jamie teases with one finger, slowly sliding in and easing right back out again. “You are in so much trouble when we land.”

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees, eyes shining. If anyone bothered to look at her properly, they’d see the hunger etched all over her face, even under the easy smile. “Yeah, reckon I am. But that’s hours off, yet, Poppins. Might as well enjoy the ride.”

Dani moves a hand to grip Jamie’s knee as hard as she can, exhaling through her nose to keep from whimpering as Jamie sets a slow, dangerous pace.

This, she decides, will certainly be the thing to drive her insane.

She's learned a lot about Dani over the years. A lot of wonderful, invigorating, sexy things about Dani--and a lot of simple ones, too. How much garlic Dani prefers in just about any dish. How good she is at decorating a house so it looks safer than anywhere in the world. How bad she is at pretending not to stare when Jamie walks out of the bathroom in nothing but a mis-buttoned flannel shirt.

A good relationship, Jamie has determined--all too aware that this is the first and last truly good relationship of her life--is constant education. Learning what your person likes, and doesn’t like, and didn’t think they could ever tell you they liked until the moment arrived. Learning when to keep the lights on, when to hold them in the dark. Learning what moods beg a kiss, which ones require hands wiping away tears, and which ask only for silence.

She’s been with Dani a long time. Hopes to be with her a lot longer. Decades, if she can trick the universe into granting them that long a reprieve. Years, if she can only steal that much. Any time with Dani is cherished. Any time with Dani is more than either of them expected.

She’s been with Dani a long time, and there’s a lot she knows now. Where Dani’s ticklish in ways that will derail sex entirely by way of hysterical laughter; where she’s ticklish in less aggressive ways that will, in fact, enhance the experience when Jamie kisses those spots. She knows that Dani likes to relinquish control, because it makes her feel safe in Jamie’s hands, and that she sometimes likes to sneak control back when Jamie isn’t looking, because she likes the way Jamie forgets how to speak when she’s surprised. She knows the way Dani likes her neck kissed, the way Dani likes to be held through a particularly intense orgasm, the way Dani gets the right kind of embarrassed when something unexpectedly obscene comes out of her mouth at just the right moment.

She knows a lot about Dani, every last detail precious, but she doesn’t know everything. Sometimes, Dani still surprises her.

Like the day she comes home with a sad little plant.

She doesn’t recognize the look on Dani’s face, and a part of her--the part that’s been waking more and more as Dani jerks restlessly in her sleep, as she carefully averts her eyes from the bathroom mirror, as she gives that old tired not-quite-present smile Jamie remembers so well from their last week at Bly--worries. Dani is still full of surprises, but some of those surprises have teeth. Some, Jamie fears she’s not strong enough to lift from Dani’s shoulders.

This time, though, the look is less hunted and more...quietly nervous. Jamie is distracted, failing miserably to secure dinner for what feels like the thousandth time in this kitchen, but something about the way Dani is hefting this plant cuts through her focus.

Dani, rescuing plants off the side of the road. Be still her heart.

Something about the way Dani glances at her as she takes over at the stove, something about the way Dani brushes past like she’s running on something electric, nearly ruins the surprise. Nearly. Except Jamie is distracted, and there's something green and not entirely lifeless to repair, and Jamie has always been up for getting to the heart of a problem. The roots, she sees without really needing to dig. The roots are...

“Dani,” she hears herself say. “Why’s there a...”

And then Dani is using words like best friend, love of my life, words so big and so wonderful Jamie wonders if she’s really awake right now. And there are other words, scary ones--don’t know how much time we have left--but Dani chases them quickly with the best words Jamie’s ever heard. Words like spend them with you. Words like we’ll know. Words like it’s enough for me, if it’s enough for you.

Jamie can’t imagine this not being enough.

She’s half-crying, kissing Dani, half-laughing, wholly effervescent. Dani’s hair is soft under hands that suddenly feel too small, too clumsy, holding on to something so fragile. Dani’s whispering I love you against her lips, and Jamie recognizes some fear in the way she’s pulling Jamie closer. Some fear, and a huge amount of relief, too.

“Did you think I’d say no?” she teases when the tears dry up enough to let her speak again. Dani, forehead pressed against hers, shakes her head minutely.

“I don’t think anyone knows what the answer will be. But...no. No, I didn’t.”

“Good,” Jamie says, trying to look like she’s not sniffling. “Think you know me better than that.”

“I know you better than anyone,” Dani says, so honestly, Jamie feels something crack from deep inside. She slides the ring onto her finger to distract from this feeling of being dunked under by some enormous wave, by feelings she truly once thought she’d never have the space for in her body.

Dinner is decidedly not salvageable by this point, and Jamie finds she isn’t hungry, anyway. She leads Dani to the the couch, curls up close to her, eyes straying back to that sad little potted plant.

“Tried to grow it, didn’t you?”

“No,” Dani says, with exactly the same inflection she once used at six in the morning in a greenhouse. Jamie laughs.

There’s an energy between them tonight unlike anything Jamie’s ever felt before. It’s been hinted at over the years--in a bedroom at Bly, in a diner in the Midwest, in the middle of their shop--but never quite so clearly as in this moment. Dani, who has seemed less and less content lately, has an arm around her shoulders, her breath coming easier than it has in weeks. Jamie doesn’t like thinking about that, doesn’t like looking too closely at what might be pulling Dani back down that particular road.

This, she decides. Just this. Just today. The rest can wait.

Dani has her hand in her lap, is fiddling with the ring like she can't quite believe she had the guts to actually give it to Jamie. Dani is always so much more surprised by her own courage than Jamie has ever been. It was always, she thinks, watching Dani idly twist the gold band back and forth, going to be Dani doing the proposing. Dani, whose relationship with marriage is so complicated. Dani, whose relationship with time is so complicated.

There’s a lot in the relationship Dani leaves in Jamie’s hands. Repairs around the house, ideas of how the shop could run more smoothly, most nights in the bedroom. There’s a lot Dani doesn’t feel like she needs to grip in tense fists, a lot Dani has never felt the need to control. Jamie’s not sure control is the word she’d choose for herself, either, but there’s a certain natural leadership to her posture in the world. Maybe because, for a time, there was no one but Jamie herself calling the shots. Maybe because she’s used to making hard choices, unable to drop them on anyone else’s shoulders.

It makes her feel an unexpected kind of strong, that Dani trusts her with so much.

But this always felt important to leave to Dani. Jamie would have been all right if they never had this conversation; the way she sees it, not much would have changed. Dani is still her most important person, ring or no. She’ll be here as long as Dani will have her, even without vows or witnesses.

But for Dani to have done this--for Dani to have planned it out, kept it a secret when she is absolutely terrible at keeping secrets from Jamie (”I never know,” she says, making a horror into the sweetest thing in the world by virtue of pout alone, “how much time we have, why would I keep anything from you?”), dropped it smoothly on a sunny evening like this--is perfect. It’s small, and it’s private, and it’s the bravest thing in the world.

“I love you,” Jamie says, because there is no amount of saying it that would feel like enough. Dani smiles until the corners of her eyes crinkle.

There are things that have surprised her about Dani over the years, and things that may have surprised Dani even more--but the thing Jamie finds most surprising of all comes from this. From the way her whole body relaxes in Dani’s hands. From the way her eyes close and her breath shallows out when Dani’s nearby. She’s never been good at vulnerability, not with anyone, but the minute Dani entered her life, it’s like vulnerability became her life’s mission.

Never consciously. Never with intent. Just...organically, the way cells know to age, the way plants know to seek sunlight. Dani walked into her life with shoulders tight and more love in her heart than she seemed to know what to do with, and suddenly, Jamie wanted only to give. Her time, her affection, anything Dani needed. Anything Dani could ever want.

It should be exhausting. It should take everything out of her. It should wring her out and leave nothing in its wake.

Instead, it seems to make her stronger every day. It seems to make her more with everything she gives to Dani: her love, her hope, her reassurances. She gives, and Dani, who could so easily take, gives back, and Jamie thinks, It’s this. It’s the exchange. Not just the caring, but the being taken care of.

“What’re you thinking?” Dani asks. Jamie winds their fingers together, brings their joined hands to her lips.

“That I’m lucky. Incredibly, illogically lucky.”

“Should I have--” Dani hesitates. “I don’t know, done it sooner?”

Sand in an hourglass, Jamie thinks. In the end, it’s all sand in an hourglass, and no amount of rushing can change it.

“It was perfect,” she says, leaning across Dani to kiss her lips. “Truly. Couldn’t ask for better.”

Dani looks like she may be considering pressing--there’s a particular crease she gets between the eyes when self-consciousness is at the wheel, and it breaks Jamie’s heart every time she sees it. Jamie pushes her back against the arm of the couch, dropping with her until they’re laying flush, cupping one hand under Dani’s jaw to kiss her properly.

“Perfect,” she repeats, brushing her nose against Dani’s, sighing when Dani’s hands move reflexively to slide the strap of her overalls off her shoulder.

There’s less verbal reassurance from there, considerably more work done via hands and sighs and lips. They’re laughing even as Jamie shifts too far to the left and rolls them both onto the very-solid floor in a half-dressed heap. Dani’s still laughing--half-wild with what Jamie reads as untempered relief--even as Jamie helps her wrestle out of her jacket, even as Jamie is sliding down her body, kissing her way back up again through the impossibly-deep slit in her dress.

There are times with Dani that feel like the pair of them will burst into flame if they aren’t touching, if they aren’t setting a rhythm together in that very moment. There are times where it’s all hunger, all heat, where Jamie thinks the very act of loving Dani might set her ablaze. And then there are times like this: times where Dani watches her with half-lidded eyes, smiling even as Jamie is undressing her, even as Jamie is coaxing cloth aside and pulling Dani to her mouth. Smiling, sighing, shifting under Jamie like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.

Times like this, tasting Dani, grasping blindly for her hand with eyes closed, are secretly Jamie’s favorite. Times like this, feeling Dani move beneath her, tracing Dani’s knuckles with the pad of her thumb, Dani’s voice the only song in the room, are the absolute ideal. It’s only here, in their home, knowing Dani would give anything to keep this safe, that Jamie thinks she’s her absolute best self.

It’s here--curled on the floor with her back against Dani’s chest, Dani’s hand tossed lightly over her hip, both of them covered with a very badly crocheted blanket Dani picked out at a flea market--that she feels most real.

“I want this,” Dani says sleepily, words muffled with her mouth pressed against Jamie’s shoulder. “For as long as possible.”

“Sleeping naked on a hardwood floor?” Jamie shifts her face against her bent elbow, grinning. Dani’s arm slides tighter around her middle.

“Holding you. Anywhere.”

“Think that can be arranged,” Jamie says, voice unexpectedly thick with emotion. Dani nuzzles against her shoulder again.

“Promise?”

Something releases in her chest, the duality of Dani now--a Dani who is starting to get scared again, but still brave enough to ask Jamie to marry her--and Dani then--a Dani terrified already, but so brave in asking Jamie to stay--coalescing into one. She inhales, shuddering, pressing back into Dani’s arms as hard as she can. Dani squeezes like she understands, like she knows Jamie needs nothing like she needs to know Dani is the most solid thing in the room.

This is the thing, Jamie thinks, that surprises her most. Not just being taken care of, but needing it from Dani. Needing to be held, needing to feel the weight of Dani’s body against her own. Needing to be reminded that for all her good humor, all her confidence, all the times Jamie can’t help putting Dani first--Dani’s doing the exact same thing.

“I’m gonna marry you,” she hears herself say, turning in Dani’s grasp and pressing her face against Dani’s neck. “Someday. Minute it’s even remotely legal.”

Dani makes the most content noise she’s ever heard in her life. “One day at a time,” she says. To Jamie’s ears, it's the purest kind of vow.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #good lord this took three days #1) as usual thank jess #2) it has been a long time since I've written this much smut #3) this one shouldn't make people cry as much you're welcome.

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