#i no longer need to imply it now that it's canon

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell. 

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid. 

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it." 

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek. 

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face." 

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.  

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one. 

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town. 

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face.  Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches. 

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions. 

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat. 

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs. 

"The wolf is here." 

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner. 

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns. 

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below. 

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me." 

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?" 

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please." 

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you. 

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow. 

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking." 

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow. 

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side. 

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder.  Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour. 

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you." 

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat. 

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money." 

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you. 

"Are you okay?" the man asks. 

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man. 

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you." 

"Do you need to call someone?" 

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix. 

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing. 

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away." 

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi. 

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!" 

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please." 

"No, I can't accept that-" 

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in. 

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat. 

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips. 

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded. 

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away. 

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb. 

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar? 

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow. 

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now. 

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning,  the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance. 

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need. 

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world. 

Food. 

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins. 

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read. 

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy." 

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath. 

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes." 

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss. 

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle. 

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you. 

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move. 

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again. 

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible. 

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?"  There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago. 

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue. 

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle. 

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm? 

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living. 

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades. 

Another deep breath in. 

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew." 

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something. 

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen) 

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle. 

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation. 

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand. 

"Sorry?" 

Oh. 

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom? 

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do." 

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken. 

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation. 

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley. 

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend. 

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week." 

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out." 

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side,  and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't. 

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to" 

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something. 

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking. 

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember. 

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself. 

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with. 

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross. 

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you. 

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display. 

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety. 

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?" 

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about. 

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try."  That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants. 

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words. 

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too. 

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-" 

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed. 

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember." 

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand. 

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."  

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason. 

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it. 

"Me?" 

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks. 

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend. 

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time," 

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear." 

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure." 

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?" 

"I don't have a phone." 

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone. 

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now. 

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

[occult-roommates]

I was too embarrassed to put it in the tag of that previous post but when early on in the blog it was a running thing that Dawud hates wearing shirt it was 25% to imply he’s autistic with sensory issues, and 75% for my own personal eye candy 🥴

[medicasino]

"Maybe i'll post the wip here idk" i have no restraint and honestly do like how it looks so far SO Mikan drawing wip before i pass out :3 rbs off solely bc its a wip and . Idk actually i just dont want my wip getting rb'd atm lol but feel free to comment if you'd like :3

(also pls dont make weird comments about Mikan here i hc her as a minor)

[lunartuness]

Spoilers for Book of Bill

Thoughts on Bill talking about Ford

I was not prepared for canon Billford in the year 2024 and yet here we are.

But seriously, I'm kinda surprised how much Bill actually liked and valued Ford? Obviously it's in a horrible, toxic, never come within the same continent as them kind of way but it's just, I always kind of figured their relationship (while obviously adoring from Ford's end due to Journal 3) was mainly just Bill humoring Ford long enough until he no longer needs him. Like, 'yeah, sure, of course you're special, I definitely believe in you' sort of nonsense.

But in Bill's book it's implied multiple times he had as close to a crush on Ford as he's probably capable of. I mean, the whole 'love cage' section is literally verbatim what he did to Ford (and just wait until they're mentally broken enough to confess their true feelings! Fear and love are basically the same thing!) And in the valentine's section he talks about leaving mice, which again, he did for Ford's birthday, and then when he wasn't happy about that, got him drunk enough to have a good time (implied kinda forcibly? since Ford declined beforehand). Then there's the fact he literally calls Fiddleford a third wheel (also coincidentally after we just learn Fiddleford spent hours on handmade gifts for Ford and forgot to get his wife anything).

And when Ford finally does catch on and things go bad? Bill tries first to talk with Ford through the zombies (to manipulate him, of course, but also Admit it, you'd miss me. I have missed you, and Bill actually smiles.) And then leaves little sticky notes asking nicely to talk. When he finally gets mad enough to escalate, he still does so in a very not-violent-for-Bill-way. Sure, killing Ford wouldn't help him but we know how messed up Bill can get. And yet what does he do? He leaves Ford's body to almost freeze, only to have a warm fire and a love song playing when he wakes up. He causes mild public disturbances and gives him an obnoxious tattoo. When he finally, finally snaps is when we start to see more of the Bill we got in the show when he tortures Ford a bit. But even that is mild?

Like, Bill rearranged a man's face for fun and takes joy in destroying the Nightmare Realm. But after threating Ford he leaves him unharmed. Very mentally scarred, yes, but safe and intact. He even gives him three days to get his life together. And then treats it like a messy breakup when Ford finally breaks free. Hell, it seems like he was more upset about losing Ford than losing the portal.

All this is to say that I think from Bill's point of view he was being genuinely kind to Ford. He gave him gifts, complimented him, and tried to work things out peacefully when Ford started pulling away (again, his very messed up version of peaceful, but the point still stands).

So when they do finally meet again? Bill still offers Ford a spot next to him. Again, I originally thought this was more playing into Ford's ego while taking a cheap shot at him (i.e. you'll fit in great with the freaks!), but by now it's obvious he wants Ford. He's petty and cruel and horribly abusive about it, but in his own twisted way he likes Ford. A lot. Enough to show mercy (or at least not be as violent as he could be) and to try and give him multiple chances to come back, no apology needed!

And the worst part is Bill knows this. Bill's trying to make this relationship work. He feels connected to Ford in a way he quite possibly hasn't felt with anyone else. And he knows its doomed to fail. In his mind he has to destroy everything he touches and everything he cares about. Any other connections he has are either superficial or dead to him (usually literally). This relationship will end the same way, it's just in Bill's nature. To him, that's all his relationships are capable of being.

All this just makes me sad and adds so much depth and I'm obsessed. There's just something about self-destructive and truly cruel characters having moments where they wish they weren't that way. Where they'll come the closest they ever can to apologizing for how they are.

(Also Bill literally wanted Ford to get a tattoo saying 'If lost return to Bill' like we cannot just ignore that oh my god)

[cryptfile]

Ꮺ˖˚₊ leeches, [ logan howlett x vampire!reader au ]

summary — logan howlett lacks of patience (and he can also be a nice little blood-bag while losing his temper). 8k+

warnings — 18+ mdni, fem!reader implied, blood kink (keep in mind you’re a vampire! not twilight but more of a true blood kind?) downright filth im sorry, dead dove do not eat, smoker!reader, endless tension, manhandling, praise kink, kind of porn without plot (LIES CAUSE IT HAS ONE THO??) my boy's into paaaaaain can't help it it's canon, age-gap at first (reader is her 20's but again, vampire), public sex (it just happened), daily reminder to wrap it before you tap it, p in v, choking, filthy mouth, pet names.

side notes — thought this could take place after days of the future past? au cause why nottttt ,,currently on ovulation season so bare with me,,, been a little mia cause i’m surviving aka going through the worst semester of my life at uni? internships are breaking my ass currently so well, here i am just existing, also, english’s not my first language and everyday i’m grateful for it, so any mistakes i’m not sorry in advance lol i’m also too lazy to correct once published,, feel free to send more logan requests since i've basically been a slut for him for a while now (i'm rotting in hell).

He could swear the mansion got ten degrees hotter when you came in.

It’s inevitable. It’s this thing you carry, the way you move — Graceful, elegant, almost compelling as the air fills the room. It’s not public knowledge that you’re not a mutant itself, yet you’re presented like one, like you have healing factors and age painfully slow, but human after all, a subtle lie, one that can harm no one.

It’s safe to say you catch his attention in the most annoying way: How couldn’t you? All you do is this weird seduction he’s appealed to, whether you’re conscious or not it’s just captivating, an invisible force that even when you ignore it is there, there waiting for the perfect moment to flood every time you happen to be in the same room.

Captivating. That’s the word.

The room becomes smaller after, the air grows thicker, and it’s almost like a ticking bomb, the way you wouldn’t even look at his face while he’s noticeable pinning after Jean Grey, the mystery that surrounds you and he cannot seem to resolve no matter how much time he puts into it.

It’s like he's the plague. You don’t really try to exchange more than just a few words, only when it's needed and you cannot avoid him any longer, and he didn’t say anything at first, keeping his distance too cause he don’t see how you’d become friends, cause after all, what he could have in common with a girl that doesn't surpass the twenty years?

But soon he's upset about it, even when he doesn't really say anything out loud, it's a spike he cannot reach under his skin. You seem to become friends with anyone but him, mutant kids in your history lessons, the rest of the team, even the damn mailman when he delivered a package — You'd say hello like it's a long time lover or so, greeting people like they mean the world to you.

He has students now that are asking for a transfer from his class to yours cause it seems you're fun to be around, more like he is, and he fucking hates it.

It's fair to say it's been getting into his mind lately. That thing you do with your hair, twisting it in your index finger on a lock as you speak, the subtle red glow in your eyes he always catches by mistake, not enough fast to stop looking at you, pretending he didn't even see in your direction at first.

Tension. Logan just happens to hate tension.

In fact. He's almost sure your problem is personal, that you might hate him enough to act like he didn't exist at all, enough to avoid him like he was not there.

That's why it's just so weird.

When he finds himself walking down the hallway to the kitchen and he smells this cherry-scented aroma that settles under his nostrils, he changes the direction he's walking to, to instead, follow the path to the person that was silently smoking outside. Hiding. Maybe, a student he'll have to scold like the old man he was turning into.

No smoking in the mansion!

However, as the night is just settling, he doesn't recognize a little mutant, but instead happens to recognize you in the middle of the gardens of the mansion, close to the maze; escaping the comfort of the inside to enjoy a self-rolled cherry tobacco he has smelled before in the air. He's a victim mostly, cause his legs move on it's own as his mouth go dry, approaching you in silence.

"What do you want?" you ask when he's halfway there. And your tone is just cold as ever, not an ounce of feeling as he contemplates your side profile, the way the tobacco sticks out of your parted lips, seated on a bench hidden between bushes and trees — "Is Scott bitching about the smell going into the mansion already?"

No. He's not. But he doesn't have enough reasons to explain exactly why he's outside if you asked, why, all of sudden, he followed the scent of cherry knowing it was you the only one who carried a colts package in the pocket of every single jacket you wore, constantly asking Storm if she could hold on to the bag of filters for you while you rolled in the worst moments.

It's distracting, to say the least.

"Yeah," he quickly says, lying cause in reality he hasn't seen the guy in the whole day, yet it sounds like something he would say. "Do you happen to have another one of those to share?"

You don't talk much, hand reaching his as you offered him from your tobacco without a single word, the same that was placed between your lips and now was on his in what seemed to be something more intimate than what he'd like to admit, the cherry taste filling his lungs as they weirdly enough, shared a cig.

"Aren't you too young to be smoking?"

You laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine cause he has never heard a sound quite like it, nothing that resembles that throaty, raspy sound that came out of your lips in amusement thanks to his words. He, out of all people, has never seen you like that — "And how old you think I am?"

He seems to think about it for a second, carefully picking his next words. Logan knows that women and their age are a tricky thing, you cannot say a number that's too compromising, nor act stupid and say something that's clearly not correct — "Not a day over twenty-two."

The answer pleases you, and he just knows he's wrong, but you don't seem bothered by it, instead, you nod pretending he's right, like he just got the answer right away.

He can see why everyone's switching classes now. Cheeky bastards.

"Twenty-two is not young at all, but i'm twenty-seven though," you say, and he scoffs at the statement, seeking for any change in your heartbeat, any sign of a lie. The strange thing happens when he cannot pick any heart at all, any sign of pulse.

"You are pretty young still," he says, against his age, you’re just starting out living—. "You don't look like you are twenty-seven at all."

"Cause I age slower than the rest," it's a practiced lie. One you know from repeating the same explanation over and over again, the priced answer of why you haven't changed a single bit in the past few years and made you a mutant — "I never looked my age."

Such a fucking liar. He doesn't need any heartbeats to confirm it cause deep down you are a terrible actress, he can see it so clear, how you're calculating every answer, thinking about the correct thing to say, the normal thing to say.

"Is that your thing?" he asks, playing pretend almost as bad as you do. Tilting his head to the side as he questions you — "Age slowly?"

"I have healing powers," you explain as he tossed you the joint once again. "My saliva kinds of help healing wounds. It's pretty boring."

"Boring" Logan repeats. The word itself sounds so damn fun in your lips it's contradicting. "That doesn’t sound really boring."

There's a moment of silence after that. Where you smoke in silence taking in the taste of the cherry, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that your lips also touched the side of the cigar he was smoking before, the plain lies you've been repeating over and over the last ten minutes.

It's almost infuriating. Makes his blood boil without question, he surely endures your treatment of silence, but being lied to? That's a whole different level.

“How old are you, kid?”

Your brows furrow in response, a clueless face. You are pulling out this show once again Logan don’t buy for a damn second. Something about the scrunch in your nose, the way you dismissed your own powers as if they weren’t enough. He knows it’s all a lie. He knows it even when he doesn’t really know you at all, when it’s the first time you’re truly speaking to him after your arrival to the mansion almost a year ago.

“How old you really are?”

You laugh at the question once again, and he just knows it, knows it when he sees you barely illuminated by the dim light of the moon, the act you always keep up, a web of tangled lies you have to be into— “Told you i'm twenty-seven already, didn't you hear?”

“Is it now?” he asks, amused by the sass, exhaling the smoke of the low-quality tobacco he doesn't understand why you're so invested in when passed it to him—. “Cause you don’t seem very convinced, it really sounds like bullshit to me.”

You're almost offended. By the look you give it's like the worst mistake he could ever make, yet you remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of an honest answer yet. Testing his patience like he did have one to begin with.

"Is that why I can’t hear your heartbeats, darlin'? Cause you age so slowly?”

The nickname scratches a part of your brain, and you hate him for it. The word rolls out of his tongue with an accent, smoking your cherry tobacco cause you happen to be nice.

“You can’t?” you’re good at faking it suddenly, at least, that's what he thinks when your brows furrow in alleged curiosity, stiffening your back, uncomfortable. “How weird.”

“Damn right it is” that's when you realize he knows you are lying. Even when you don’t talk much, even when you act all stiff and bothered when he’s close, he knows that you are fully invested in lying. In whatever twisted little lie you've planned, like it was your real life and not something you made up. “Are you going to tell me truth, then or do I have to find out? Does the professor know that you're lying?”

The smoke lingers in the air.

“How old are you?” he asks once again, demanding an honest answer this time — "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

You find his questions annoying, mostly cause he won't stop until he gets an answer, one that pleases him enough to leave you alone, the other part cause you happen to like the playful banter you two keep going, dangerously much. You don't hate attention it's clear, what you do hate it's the way he seemed to see pass the lie, to demand more even when he has no right to.

He enjoys being the one who's right though, Logan cannot help it. He's pleased to catch that look on your face who says everything but nothing at once, to have you where he wanted, almost at the edge of admitting a truth.

Is it payback because you've been stealing all of the little mutants from his class? He's jealous cause kids like being around you? It does not make much sense, but he is fully invested. Questioning all.

Even when you're outside, it seems like the air grows thicker. And Logan finds himself seeking for your breathing, cause he don't know nothing, nothing about you more than the fact you don't seem to have a heartbeat, or pulse and now, breathing.

“If you really are that eager to know, i'm a hundred and twenty-seven” the words float in the air for a while, and he's sure you're just messing with him, cause there's no way a pretty little face like yours had endured a century. “I've been alive for quite a while.”

He doesn't fully believe it first. Of course he doesn't. Logan's sure you're messing with him also, distracting him about your real age.

“And I supposed this do come from you slow aging powers” He tries to give you a point there, but it's difficult to be serious when you're just playing with him—. "How so?"

To be honest, you do have a little temper yourself, you've learned to stand up for yourself most of the time, so when you happen to notice he's teasing you, that he doesn't really believe you, you adopt this attitude of defense he notices as you shift over the wood you're seated in.

"No, it doesn't" you steal the joint from his hands to have a smoke yourself. "You really aren't as smart as I thought you were, huh?"

Do you happen to have a dead wish? His muscles tense beneath his shirt, and in contrast of his problem, you can hear it all. All the sounds his body makes when he's all bothered just by the beat of his heart, that annoying sound his bones make each time he moves.

"What are you?"

"That's it," the praising goes directly into his chest, the tone you use to tell him he's going in the right direction it feels just so right he forgets why he got mad in the first place—. "That's what you should be asking right there."

It's almost a shame having to admit he would also switch classes. That he would also go through all the paperwork himself without a second thought and that right there, is pathetic, but you're smiling at him as if you're encouraging the man to try harder, to find the answer himself, and fuck — He's old, too old, he's tired, he's in a bad mood as fucking usual, and he happens to dig a drink in the quiet of his own room, but he's pulled by something as equal as devastating as the gravity force, shoot towards you in pure need to have some answers even if he has to make you spit them.

"I find it strange, cause when you don't have a heartbeat, you aren't usually alive" Deep down he's fascinated, hazel eyes glues on your face trying to understand. He feels like he has it in the tip of his tongue waiting to leave his mouth as a catastrophic answer, but he doesn't find the right words.

"That's cause i'm not," you state it like it's something obvious. And just as he knows you're lying, this time, he knows you're telling the truth, blowing the smoke in his direction just to bother him — "Why do you think i'm teaching history after all huh?"

He hasn't seen it all, it seems.

Yeah.

He's losing it after that night.

It’s known that Logan has sleeping problems, but that night specifically he thinks about something else rather than what usually torments him, a truth he also has to keep a secret now that he's learned more about it.

See, Logan doesn't expect you to be really dead. Much less to hear what you are and have been hiding this whole time from the rest of the people in the mansion — He also learns that you feed on blood, that vampires are a common thing in the world and that he shouldn't, at least, be that surprised when he's a mutant in a world full of humans himself.

You are a folklore myth on small villages, stories in Rumania and horror character in films, so you don't blame him when as you spoke, he finally understands why you're so damn attractive, so damn seductive as you explained more about your way of living, some memories you've been keeping to yourself since being a vampire was so damn solitary, memories he listens to cause he knows what it's like, to be misunderstood, to be eternal, to be alone as well.

It makes the two of you grow closer by the next weeks. You now talked during broad daylight about random shit at first, about the war sometimes, about your condition as he refers to when people is around, eaves-dropping on what you two are talking so invested in. Friends.

Simple as that.

And it's safe to admit also that in the course of the next days, Logan Howlett is a fucking mess, and he knows it, but he won't do anything about it.

He won't flirt cause he knows you're a hell of a woman, in every good sense of the word, that he's way too damaged for a vampire even, for all kinds of people out there, and as much as he'd like to say anything, he values your attention, how you switched the attitude of acting like he didn't exist to be a friend, one that you came to share secrets with a cherry aroma glued in their skin.

It gets him insane, to the point he's no longer spending much time with Jean and people start to pick up on it as if he didn't have enough headaches already. He doesn't care. Shit you are not bothered by what people say, and to be honest, he cannot seem to care either.

At first, he's reluctant of keep on talking to you as normal as it is. He's not really invested in religious themes, but he sure admits you're a sin by all meanings, a religious experience of some kind if anyone asked him — He agrees with what he has heard also in the hallways. Innocent conversations of teens and their platonic crush on their teachers. You are pretty hot.

He's so interested in knowing more about you, about the nights you spend in Rumania, when you leave to Canada, the different lives you've lived across the years. He finds himself looking forward to share his stories too, weird enough, cause he's over two centuries himself and he just craves to talk about it with someone who also gets him in a deeper level, that weariness that fills your body when you age so long.

You got the best of immortality, and instead of feeling envious, Logan finds himself attracted to you so much like he's never been in his whole existence. Not at the point it happened with you at least.

By the end of the first month he knows your little treats. You use a lot of sunscreen, and avoid activities outside as much as you possibly can with those classic, tiny black sunglasses that hided you from the rays of the sun, always in the shadow so unapproachable; how you'd usually dismiss food offerings from anyone who's kind enough to even offer you something, and when you haven't fed well during the course of the week, you'd become the most maddening woman he'd ever met.

Maddening.

"What wrong with you, Leech?" Leech. You've been in such a bad mood lately that when he's seating next to you in another random smoking session outside, your fingers twitch, clearly pissed at the nickname after saying multiple times you don't like it.

"I'm not in the mood for plays now."

He can tell from before. When you talked to him that very morning and stared at the collar of his flannel for what it seemed a good, nice minute, he realizes the same moment that you were staring at that pulse point in his neck, where the flesh blood was pumping in his blood flow: You're hungry, as any living creature would be and at your own manner, in constant control as you fight the sense of hunger.

So instead, the mutant ask, like he always does when he’s curious about something that involves you:

"When did you last feed?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

That would explain it. You don't talk much about your meal plan, he knows the professor is in charge of all of that. You've told him about blood bags and hospitals, but he's not really aware of how constant you need to eat, how the blood supplies most of your energy, makes you stronger, gives you vitality, so Logan at first, don't really know what its like to not drink any blood in the course of two weeks.

"What happened with the blood bags from the Hospital?"

The mention of blood out loud seems to triggers you. A groan escaping your lips as you can swear you feel the taste in your mouth — "Don't know. Haven't seen a single one this week, Charles said something about next week, problems in the bank I guess."

You're clearly worked up. It's a new look he hasn't registered before, your hair is tangled in a less-composed look, and there's a slight shake in your hands as if you're going through withdrawal, deprived for what you needed the most.

"And animals?" he questions, trying to find a solution. “Can’t you eat a cat or something?”

"Like shit i'm going to feed from a fucking animal," you're almost immediately grossed out, scrunching your nose at the idea. "I can barely handle being so close to a damn human but animals? I'd rather fucking die this time for real, no waking up."

"That bad huh?" the mutant asks, taking a sip from the beer he sneaked outside, chucking lightly afterwards. "So you're a leech with elegant taste, huh? Of course you are."

"Clean blood is rare," you explain, rolling your eyes. It's inevitable. He knows you hate the nickname so much that he insists to keep on calling you that way just to get a reaction—. "Humans nowadays taste like dirt. They consume drugs among other substances, pills, food supplements, even damn vitamins, don’t get me started about blood diseases cause it gets me in a bad temper. Every single thing affects on your taste, even what you eat. It's all registered there. Clean, good blood is rare to find. Call me elegant, call me picky. It's a damn fact."

"And what about mutant blood?" he questions. And it seems like a mere phrase at first, one with no subtle tones, he’s usually curious about your nature so you don’t pay much attention as he spoke—. “You’re picky about mutants too?”

“No, i’ve never had a mutant before.” The truth is, you hate feeding from people, the act being something so intimate, so damn personal, you refrain yourself. Killing humans, picking a next victim to fed on, is considered now a treat you don't appreciate from your kind, making you steal from hospitals and any kind of blood bank before Charles offered you help. You haven't fed from a mutant, cause you avoided everyone equally, but you don't want to be rude about it. “You all smell different, but i’d be lying. Maybe yes, i’d be picky about it too, feeding is something intimate.”

It's an undeniable admission, and now that he's trying to be in your position, he would also be picky about someone's blood. Logan remains stoic cause he’s suddenly filled by the thought of something else, a glimpse of his own weird creativity he forces himself to push aside, to really suppress now that it's not the time or the moment.

“How do I smell?” It's too late to stop the words from coming out of his mouth when he asks her. And at first, is out of pure curiosity. He has never encountered a vampire in his life until you, let alone had someone talking about the subtle tastes of the blood being undead, so he doesn't want to let the opportunity slip — Of course he wants to know if an over two hundred mutant like himself would be as remotely good as a fresh, clean bag from the hospital.

"You stink like wet dog," he surely deserves it after all the times he’s been calling you a leech — "Like those cigars you tend to smoke, alcohol, and musk. It's similar as wood. That smell you got when you're in a forest and it's not raining but straight pouring."

"Is this a way of telling me i'd taste bad, peach?"

You make a mental note to let him know after you like peach way more than leech.

"If i'd found a human smelling like that, you won't be hearing from me anytime soon" you're just messing with him. A playful banter you enjoy more than ever, the distraction you needed to think in something else rather than the blood bags you craved so deeply — "Hell, i've would just walked the other way."

"So i'm taking you won't be feeding from me anytime soon."

It all takes a dark turn there. You're very aware of the tension the last month now that you talk to him in daily basis, but it’s just mere tension, nothing that ever goes beyond the limit. Logan has never said something to flirt with you despite the million chances he got, and he always remained like a friend, one that you enjoy spending time with now. Cannot be blamed when you're taken aback.

“Cat got your tongue, kiddo?” Man. You're about to whine about the name before you remember he is indeed, older than you are. Vampire or mutant.

"You want me to feed from you?"

He seems so willing when you ask. Even when you teased about his smell calling him a wet dog. He just seems so eager to let you just do it, try a mutant for the first time.

"Yeah," he dismisses it like it's not something so deep — "I doubt Charles is going to let you take a bite since you could clearly kill him, and I'm not sure the others would be pleased with the idea of you sinking your teeth in them, so yes. Me, leech."

Logan Howlett doesn't really smell bad. And you don't know why cause he has all the ingredients to fucking stink, yet, you'd call him interesting. That's what you thought when you find his pulse point again, the vein in his neck you looked earlier in the morning, thinking just as the same you were thinking now.

Of course you would feed from him. Is it a good thing to do? No, in any other circumstances you'd decline. He's your friend.

Now? You’re having a hard time.

"So I'm guessing that you're pleased with the idea, then," Real talk?, you just want to hear him say it. He doesn't talk much usually, but now that he's very vocal about what's on his mind, you have to take advantage of it—. "I'm not sure either. But I do think Storm may be interested too."

He seems content with the response, taking a long sip from his beer before adding — "Please, go and ask her so you're less annoying."

You're almost completely sure he doesn't find you annoying. You also don't care about Storm. And maybe he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not moving.

"You really want me to bite you?"

"I dunno now, princess" he looks at you pleased now cause he got you where he wanted to, cause he managed to awake all the interest now that you're looking at him "Are you going to pull a Dracula on me?"

"No, i'm not going to suck you dry if that's what you're asking."

Logan chuckles. He's a damn masochist. It's been like that as long as he can remember. It may have to be with his healing powers cause he likes it more than usual, but the idea gets to his head soon enough, all falling so damn fast: Your breathing would be against his neck and he'd take the bite like a damn champ.

"Yeah I can handle you," he says, aroused. "You're not gonna hurt me if you take some blood. I'll be fine and you won't be a pain in the ass."

He acts so gruff about it but you hear the sound of his heartbeat already high enough to wake the entire mansion, his labored breathing since he suggested the idea himself. He digs it, strange enough. Thrives on the idea.

He's a grown man already, and he can take a little leech like yourself.

It's clear you're hungry, cause it doesn't take much for you to accept, nodding like you're defeated, like you just lost the war entirely, cause there's no many options here to take and even if it were, you are now interested in have him more than any other blood bag. In fact. To hell with the hospital.

"Okay."

It's a simple answer, and it sure works with him as you get close to him, the bench you always used to sit now seeming so small as you look around confirming you guys really are alone—. "You won't tell anyone?"

It's something stupid to ask, cause after all that time he has never said anything, keeping your secrets as if they were his own, saving you from weird questions people get sometimes as they didn't know much about you. He's clearly not going to say nothing at all.

"Are you going to stop whining for a second and just eat darlin'? Cause I might change my mind here."

He's feeling overload soon after.

You don’t need a formal invitation to lean closer to his neck.

There's no way to describe it also cause he has never seen something like that, never felt a similar sensation more than when he's fucking, the cold touch of your fingers in his chest, taunting the vein in his neck without a previous warning before leaning in even closer than before—. "Stay still" you demand, face close against his bare skin, only one goal in mind. "Don't move for a minute. Just-"

You cannot finish the sentence, and Logan can experience the sporadic pain of the bite first hand when your teeth finally sink in his neck, piercing the flesh so easily as you let the blood fill your mouth. He grunts at the sharp pain, his face contracting momentarily before it's replaced by a nice wave of pleasure, one that hits him right in the guts as he grabs you by the nape of your neck, pushing you against him, almost demanding you to be closer, to keep on taking what you want, what you've been craving for two weeks.

When did he turned into this perverted sick? Getting off by something so primal as the fact you're feasting on him.

The feeling of your lips and the clear suck you gave when feeding are sending him into a spiral, and to be honest, he didn't expect to be so devastated by you, by the way your fingers stay against his chest to prevent him from moving, pinning the mutant between the wood bench and yourself so he won’t move, won’t do anything unless you want him to,pressing on the wound to draw more blood out.

"You heal so damn fast," you complain, looking at the traces of your bite with an unpleased face as they disappeared on his skin as fast as you created them.

"Then bite me again. I don't care."

You chuckle before leaning once again, and you can feel how the air grows hotter than how it was usually, the shift on his breathing as you bite him again, pressing on the wounds once again just to suck.

And you’re hungry, it’s the whole deal. His taste differs from what you believe at first, a huge change from what humans taste like, from what you’re used to deal with in hospitals. There’s a subtle taste of alcohol yes, but it mixes good with the sweet taste of honey, the weird taste you cannot put into words. It must be a mutant thing for sure cause it’s thicker than usual, a mix of flavors that explode in your tongue.

The headache you suffered from the whole week seems to dissapear as you drink in, feeding the monster you responded to in your stomach, demanding you to make him bleed more, to satisfy yourself until you can’t have any more.

Logan, on the other hand, is really fighting against his very own war.

You’re already close enough, but he just wants you damn closer, as much as he possibly can. It’s clear that well, it hurts slightly, but he has endured much worse, means nothing when it’s the pleasure that comes with it who strikes on his body, the light sucking, the idea you’re full of his blood, that you are not on trouble as you were before thanks to him. All because of him.

He's not used to acts on his impulses, but he does it anyway.

"C'mere" he says in a strangled voice, Logan's having no trouble moving you around, grabbing you by the hips to make you straddle him, keeping you glued to his neck as he doesn't want to disturb you—. "You really are a pretty leech, huh?”

You hum against his skin, pleased at the contact, and when he realizes you’re not complaining about his actions, he let his fingers grip your tights, keeping you against him.

You can hear him making this sound, quite like a moan but not exactly when you’re licking the holes you left in his skin, he does heal fast and don’t need any of your help when you’re done, but you coat his skin with your saliva anyway just to speed up the process, cause you want to do it, looking down to him after to check if he’s pale or nearly dead. You never really know.

And Logan himself is just fine cause his fingers gather the blood under your lip when he takes the sight of you sitting in his lap as the pearly white rays of moonlight makes your skin shine, and he pushes them inside your mouth so you don't waste any drop of what it can be considered food.

"So what's the final verdict?" he asks as his hands are now grabbing your tights, there's something so intimate about the moment, so personal, hot as he presses his fingers against the flesh of your muscles, he understand what you said before—. "Do I taste like utter shit?"

"Well, i’d need another taste to have my final decision" he laughs, and he don't really laugh often so the unexpected sound sends a shiver down your spine now that you’ve heard the sound quite a while now—. "Not much, just a little."

“Have you fill then, peach” He encourages you. “I want you full so you don’t whine the rest of the week.”

You don’t have any heartbeat, but if you did, it would be ragging in your ears at his words. At the warmth he’s spreading like a disease on her body that, despite being dead and cold, you can feel more than ever.

“I like peach,” you admit, this time pressing a soft kiss before directly hurt him—. “Leech is annoying.”

He’s going to say something, tease you about it maybe but he’s interrupted by the nice feeling of what he considers are your fangs tearing his skin apart, familiarity hitting him all sudden as he moans, a rough sound that comes from the deep of his throat, hands coming down to squeeze your ass, making you gasp against his neck when you experience the aching need physically forming in his pants.

“Still,” you say, concentrated on not allowing the wounds to close. But at the lack of complaints on what he's doing, Logan’s hands kept wandering around, making you move against his now clearly stiffed cock—. “Fuck’s sake I said still.”

“Stop being a damn brat. You can eat while I move you,” he grunts annoyed, shoving you against him, the friction of his jeans against the thin fabric of your shorts is enough to keep you quiet: Feeding from a stranger and feeding from a person you’re attracted to are two different things, especially in the position you find yourself in. “You don’t have to do anything. Quit whining about it.”

In response, your fingers press against the wound, not caring if it hurts or if it bothers him, but just enough to get him to bleed more and prevent the cut from closing, lapping at the blood that gathered over his collarbone, staining his white tank before you could even avoid it.

Your fingers grab the fabric just to pull it slightly down so it won't bother you, and the deep sound his chest make when he mocks about your desperation is stuck on your brain for the next couple of minutes, indulging in his taste, shutting up the rest of the world.

A moan comes out of your lips, muffling it against his skin. You're too zoomed out to hear it, but he's on a hell of a ride too, moaning as he demands more. It's been a while since the last time you did something like that, combine the pleasure of something as primal as eating with a mundane activity like sex, so you kind of forgot how good it felt, blaming yourself from depriving from something so needed.

"Do you always get this turned on when someone bites you?"

"No" Logan answers as you finish. He's rock hard beneath you, and he lets you know it when he's controlling the movement of your hips, working you against him at a slow pace—. "See, the woman i'm trying to seduce don't usually bite me, nor make me their main dinner plate."

You whine at the friction.

He looks down to the cause of all his damn problems just to notice his pants being damped with nothing but a physical form of need, soothing the uncomfortable fabric of his blue jeans — "So wet for me already, you’re making a damn mess, do you always get this turned on when feeding?"

Cheeky bastard.

He's using your own words against you, and you cannot be less bothered as you laugh softly, licking your lips only cause you know there's dried blood in them, drowned in his smell, the honey taste that lingered in your mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

At the sight, Logan's hand grabs your jaw in a rough movement, making you look at him before making you kiss him, deepening the contact as fast as you give him the chance. His tongue is soon invading your bucal cavity as he takes control of it, slow, intense and needy, as if he was holding on so much time before giving in to his own desires.

It is something like that.

You don't need to breathe in daily basis, but there's a burning sensation in your chest of wanting, of infinite lust you've been also experiencing by yourself.

The old mutant can taste his own blood in your mouth, a metallic taste as he keeps on kissing you until your lips are pink and puffed. He has thought so much about it that now that he has the opportunity, he devours as if he's a starved man having his first meal in what seems are ages.

"You didn't tell me if I tasted bad."

You think about it for a second.

"I'm afraid you're a rare breed cause it doesn't make any sense" You don't need any help now moving, cause you're rolling your hips on top of him at your own pace, allowing him to use his hands for something else—. “You have all the ingredients to taste like shit, but it's nothing but the contrary, even better than the fucking blood bags.”

“Sounds like your going to make me your meal plan, darlin. I’m here offering you a hand and you just take everything,” — “Such a greedy little vampire.”

He doesn't seem to care though, same as before he's nothing but willing to let you take everything as much as he tries to bark about it. He's more worried about his hands now that they're sliding down your oversized shirt, tracing patterns over your stomach, his touch so hot against your usually cold temperature.

"Logan," you whine,— "Someone can see us out here."

"Now you care about that?" his hazel eyes are a shade darker when he speaks. "After you're nice and full of my blood?"

His hands are big enough to take your whole cunt, allowing his digits to roam over the fabric of your underwear, almost thanking you for using those loosened pajama shorts he has seen before that very night as he just takes the fabric and pull it to the side.

"Nobody is going to see us. It's late and everyone's sleeping, leech" he teases you, and you cannot bring yourself to care about the nickname at the feeling of his hand taunting you from over the fabric—. "If you can bite me here outside, you might as well take my cock here too."

You cannot battle against that. You're deep in whatever spell he puts you into, giving in to the attraction and the tension that now needs to be taken care of. Logan's fingers touch you in nothing but experience, cause he knows how to please after so much time alive, how much pressure he needs to apply to leave you plain dumb, pliable for him.

"D'you think I need to stretch you out before fucking you?" he asks against your neck after leaving a reasonable-sized hickey in the zone, he likes the idea of people finding out about what you've been doing with him the next morning. "Or you're a big girl and can take me all by yourself?"

He'd like to take your time with you. Thoroughly enjoy you as much as he wants to, let everyone know you're his now, that you're shuddering thanks to him only, but he's too needy for that, too deprived of you to take his time.

"I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours and talk to me," he demands, coming up to look at your face while torturing you, his index and middle finger rubbing your clit from over the underwear—. "I'm not properly touching you yet and you're losing it already, peach. C'mon, you can talk to me still."

"I can take you," you say in a strangled voice. "Please Logan, please."

It's the plea of your tone that gets him, the soft begging of an ache he can only soothe, your face while you ask for more, not aware of anything else but him.

"Please what?"

"Please just fuck me already," you ask in frustration—. "I just need you to fill me up for a damn while."

You are starting to love the sound of his laugh. The deep sound he makes when he’s really enjoying something, his voice in damn general.

"Be a good little vampire" He says in a gentle tone. Logan’s trying to be kind even when his touch is so rough. "Unbuckle my pants and take my cock out. My hands are busy now, and you can do it yourself."

He is busy indeed. Toying with your underwear being the only thing that’s keeping him from the direct contact, pushing the fabric against your hole as it works as a barrier, preventing his digits to fuck you as he’d like to. He’s busy keeping you in place, preventing you from downright melt as your hands came up to unbuckle his belt first, the sound of the metal as it moves filling the air for a couple of seconds before you put all your attention in the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with the force you’re using.

“Yeah baby,” he praises—. “You’re doing so good, keep going.”

When you pull the fabric of his briefs down, he’s already leaking for you, pink head, slightly curved to the side, moaning, erratically how much he needs your hands on him, how you're wet and ready for his cock. You close your fist around him, stroking slowly as your hips lift up enough to position yourself on top of him.

He’s big. Damn fucking right he is, you’d expected it from before cause sometimes you swear you can see his full length in his jeans, but taking him in your hand is a struggle but itself.

“Are you going to take me yourself or do you need my help? I know you can.”

Despite his words, he does help. Grabbing the black fabric of your underwear to finally make it to the side, the tip of his dick pushing against your clit before he's the one to place it in your leaky hole, forcing himself slowly, giving you time to take him in, inch by inch.

“Good girl," he says, head rolling backwards for a brief moment as he experiences the warm sensation of your walls surrounding him, clenching against his cock as he keeps one hand on your hip, helping you as you lower yourself over him. "Let me look at you.”

His fingers grab your jaw, squeezing you as he makes you look back at him, pushing you once again as you holded a loud moan. He's stretching you at his need.

"One more time," he begs. "One more time and you got it, peach. You're almost there."

Jesus fuck. You can feel yourself getting dizzy. You've drank a lot of blood and you're now overwhelmed by this intense pleasure that formed in your lower stomach, gathering there and waiting for the perfect moment to explode—. "Fuck I-"

Logan's pampering you with kisses as a mere distraction, his lips travelling through your neck to your collarbone before you're finally seated on top of him, a muffled moan you need to shut filling the calm of the night.

"Fuck you're tight," he exhales, and he's lost in the sensation, the way your velvety walls welcome him inside. He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust, to make you the one who starts moving on top of him.

You can see his veins popping up. All over his chest and coming down to his shoulders and his arms, and god gracious — He smells so fucking good you’re tempted to ask if you can have a bite again.

The moment feels longer than usual, the seconds pass slowly as you stay there. Logan’s hands are just touching your skin from under your oversized t-shirt, taking in the low moans you gave him, the almost perceptible whispers as you get used to him, to his size.

He likes the intimacy of it, the bliss. Man you look so pretty in his lap when the light of the moon is stripping you all to his eyes, even if you’re fully dressed an he’s seated in a damn bench, he cannot enjoy it more, pulling you in for a needy kiss, one that is rougher than the first one and leads you to move inevitably.

His cock pushes past that nice spot inside, and the friction is enough to make you move again, rocking your hips at a slow pace for a few seconds. The sound of your moans is silenced by his demanding kisses, and now that he knows you can handle him, his grip on your hips turn more firm now, squeezing the skin there so he can control your speed, the rythm of your movements now faster than before.

“Shh, don’t whine” what he lacks of vocal usually, he pours it all in just fucking, talking you through it when he feels you’re being too loud—. “Do you want to wake the others? We can’t have them seeing you like this, all fed up and cock-drunk.”

“Let me bite you again,” you ask soon enough. And it takes a lot to do it, cause you’re doing it out of pure greed, cause you can’t have enough.

“Take whatever you want, leech, just don’t make me faint” he jokes, his panted breathing betraying him as he moans, incredibly interested in the idea—. “Want to be conscious when you cum all over my dick.”

Logan’s sure your eyes glisten in a red color as you lean over his neck. And this time is less affectionate, much less gentle as you finally bite him again, teeth piercing the flesh so easily his hips jolts against you in response of the sharp pain your fangs create, the warm sensation of his blood in contrast of your cold touch, tongue-licking all you get from him.

And fuck it feels good.

He shrudders beneath you, shaking his head just slightly at reflex of pain before continue working his way with you, placing his hand between your tights as he lets his fingers rub on your sensitive clit, just enough to make you bite on his neck harder, the lewd sounds of your cunt taking him between holded moans as you suck on his neck.

“That’s it taking me so good,” He praises — “You like that, princess? Like how you’re full of me?”

You hum against his skin. The blood coates your chin as it goes down through his chest, staining his white tank for a couple of seconds before the holes your teeth made finally closes on their own.

It’s pure ecstasy. He can feel it when you clenching around his cock, cheeks red from his blood going now through your system, his vitality, his energy.

You can feel him fucking everywhere. So when you kiss him it’s all teeth, bite and his blood.

The pleasure’s taking control of you now, and Logan’s dizzy from the blood loss, his body covered now in sweat as his words slur together, not threading any coherent thought.

“That’s it,” he says, making you bounce of his cock. “Gonna’ have you in my room then, all spread out f’me.”

His hand wrap around your neck tightly, keeping the direct contact as he chokes you. Shit. You don’t need to say a word. Logan already got you.

“James-” he’s too deep to question why you’re using that name with him. How you facade is crushing down now as you let go.

When your body trembles on top of him he’s already cumming too, the squeeze on his cock sufficent to fuck him up personally, his bruising grip on your hips shoving you as deep as he possibly can as his release hits him like a brick falling from the damn sky.

He lets you work for it, ride each second of your high, milk him dry as a white circle of his own cum mixed with your juices coated the base of his cock, his underwear now slick with your orgasm.

He’s struggling to breathe, to properly say something as you’re finally coming down from your peak, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Did you called me James?” he questions, and you’re a damn bad liar, cause he knows imediately you’re hidding something cause of the look on your face—. “Do we know each other? From before.”

You don’t know how to respond at first, at least, cause you cannot lie in a position like that now.

“Well uh. It’s quite a long story here.”

Before you can continue he gets up, making you wrap your legs around his hips before stsrting to walk to the mansion.

“Logan-” you say in a strangled moan yourself, still sensitive as he’s balls-deep inside you.

“It will be less than two minutes, leech” he responds gruffily,— “Need to get you into my room so I can enjoy you the rest of the night, and you can tell me all of it.”

He don’t care if he’s bloody or a damn mess as he squeezes your ass climbing up the stairs, much less if anyone see the two of you in that state.

“I want to hear all the details, Cause I have a weird feeling that this has happened before.”

You cannot find a reasonable excuse to say no as the man’s already reaching the second floor.

Logan’s fucked after that night. When he learned about all that you were before, weirdly connected to you through the decades.

It must be the bite isn’t? Shit. He’s more in sync than ever now that you’ve been feeding from him a lot the last few weeks.

Ah. You fucking leech.

my masterlist

[geekgirles]

Just Look My Way

Can we please talk about the way the lyrics have changed from the original to showcase Stolas' growth and character development?

I was already surprised that what originally looked like it was just going to be a fan video ended up becoming canon content, but when I heard the different lines my mind exploded, you guys.

Note the difference, the major difference, in treatment!

In the original version, which released back in season 1 but before Ozzie's, Stolas' line was actually:

"Come now, my little impish plaything, we've both made our choice."

Keep in mind the original most likely included this line as a reference to what both Striker and Stolas said in regards to Blitzo's relationship with Stolas. Even our dear owl boy referred to him as just a plaything while saving him from D.O.R.K.S! Which most likely only helped cement Blitzo's internalised belief that Stolas would never see him as anything other than a cheap thrill.

Here, however, Stolas is cementing him as his dearest! A loved one! Someone he values and cares for! That is a huge difference from being just a sexual partner!

And the second line. OMG, THE SECOND LINE.

Unlike the original, where Stolas speaks of a choice that, realistically, was never there (as it usually is the case with relationships where there's a power imbalance and, moreover, were born out of transactional needs), this time he is reaffirming Blitzo's agency and independence. The implied choice is clear: Stolas will present the asmodean crystal to him so he no longer relies on his Grimoire and sleeps with him out of necessity. All that's left for Blitzo now will be to choose if he wants to remain by Stolas' side even then. And the choice is his.

As a quick aside, I also love the constant symbolism between Blitzo and the Moon.

Technically, compared to Stolas and the Earth, both are just satellites, nowhere near as important as a Goetia demon and member of Hell Royalty or a planet brimming with life and where beauty and wonder happen at every corner. And yet, without them neither can thrive. Stolas is as fascinated and dependent of Blitzo as the Earth is with the Moon. Without the Moon, there's no tides; it brings inspiration and romance to countless souls, brightening the night sky, just like Blitzo brightens Stolas' life.

Blitzo is Stolas' moon, and I just think that's beautiful.

Every word in this line in particular just oozes character development, too.

The original was:

"What's left for me in this broken house if I cannot have you?"

This is no longer about Stolas using Blitzo to escape his boring routine and his horrible marriage to Stella, it's about Stolas being deeply and hopelessly in love with Blitzo and not knowing what to do to convey that in a way that will reach him.

Once again, Blitzo has stopped being a mere plaything or boy toy and become so much more. He has become an essential part of Stolas' life he doesn't know what he'll do without but knows he'll have to let go of if that's what Blitzo wants!

Now, I must admit I am not exactly a fan of this change in these particular verses. On the one hand, I understand it's meant to reflect Stolas is trying to understand Blitzo and see things from is point of view, but I also feel it robs the moment of the raw feeling the original conveyed:

"Is this how she'd feel? Abandoned, all alone, left to fend for herself, for a semblance of happiness that doesn't have to end?"

"She" clearly referring to Via.

I just think it would have been more powerful to keep it and allow that juxtaposition between the most important people in his life to help Stolas understand Blitzo better. After all, he loves them both dearly and unconditionally, but his actions have also hurt them both very deeply.

I just think it'd be fitting if one allowed him to understand the other better.

Nevertheless, if there is something this song has taught me, is this: we are so not ready for the next episode.

[atlabeth]

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.2k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake. 

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point. 

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel. 

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there. 

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always. 

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.” 

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?” 

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.” 

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.” 

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says. 

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes. 

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says. 

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.” 

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs. 

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.” 

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.” 

-

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file. 

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene. 

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house. 

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt. 

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control. 

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.  

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics. 

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it. 

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.  

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything. 

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect. 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.” 

“What has he been charged for?” 

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail a little less than a year ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs. 

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind. 

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive. 

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh. 

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising. 

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock. 

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford. 

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.” 

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?” 

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?” 

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says. 

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…” 

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house. 

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all. 

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.” 

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?” 

He nods. “I had a change of heart.” 

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.” 

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.” 

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Louis area.” 

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him. 

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things: 

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be. 

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school. 

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts. 

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says. 

You glower at him, but you stay silent. 

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.” 

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.” 

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?” 

You nod. “He lives with me.” 

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away. 

“Why is that?” Hotch asks. 

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too. 

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”  

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going. 

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.” 

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.” 

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?” 

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you. 

“Really?” 

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him. 

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her. 

And he didn’t even know when she died. 

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look— well… sad. 

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says. 

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb. 

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.” 

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.” 

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even. 

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.” 

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.” 

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.” 

“Do you want them to?” 

“…No.” 

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.” 

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.” 

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you. 

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.” 

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says. 

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.” 

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.” 

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door. 

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again. 

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up. 

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?” 

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.” 

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.” 

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret. 

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.” 

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case— 

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.  

You’ve changed a lot. So has he. 

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him. 

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind. 

-

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.” 

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!” 

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.” 

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts. 

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief. 

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused. 

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss. 

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.” 

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.” 

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses. 

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once. 

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck. 

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on. 

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity. 

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs. 

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air. 

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

- 

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger. 

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it. 

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.  

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing. 

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. 

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong. 

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you. 

Because god— what are the odds? 

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother? 

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years. 

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time. 

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you. 

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.” 

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties. 

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?” 

“Not one for small talk,” you remark. 

“I never have been.” 

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.” 

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now. 

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face. 

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.” 

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.” 

“And home is?” 

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.” 

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says. 

“Sources can lie.” 

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.” 

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up. 

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had. 

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened. 

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”   

“None of those sound like questions,” you say. 

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I stay out of his business.”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it?”

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.” 

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?” 

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“You didn’t tell him—” 

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?” 

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse. 

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.” 

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.” 

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.” 

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?” 

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.” 

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply. 

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly. 

“And you’re wrong, by the way.” 

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken. 

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.” 

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you. 

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.” 

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.” 

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. You know he already knows it, but it still seems to have some effect on him. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.” 

“…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least. 

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.” 

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.” 

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.” 

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.” 

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron. 

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“You know th—” 

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.” 

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.” 

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking. 

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.” 

“The profile—” 

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.” 

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly. 

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this. 

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right. 

You have to be right. 

The room feels even colder. 

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do. 

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him. 

-

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room. 

“She does not like you.” 

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie. 

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.” 

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands. 

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor. 

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.” 

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.” 

“You’re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him. 

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him. 

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things. 

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.” 

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again. 

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.” 

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.” 

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.” 

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.” 

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego. 

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.” 

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside. 

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch… 

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore. 

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you. 

“They sent a new one in,” you say. 

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual. 

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off. 

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation. 

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time. 

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks. 

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks. 

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says. 

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet. 

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong. 

-

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier. 

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once. 

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron. 

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s chest as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard. 

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you. 

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round. 

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed. 

Aaron says your name, and you hum. 

“Are you listening?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you say. 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?” 

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly. 

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully. 

Your eyes open and you frown. 

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.” 

“…Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?” 

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?” 

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron. 

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction. 

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up. 

“Go for it,” you finally say. 

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?” 

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.” 

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.” 

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything. 

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand. 

Sometimes you need reminders. 

“I love you too.” 

-

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.” 

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs. 

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third. 

No one expected this to happen so soon. 

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt. 

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work. 

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation. 

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved. 

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it. 

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press. 

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.” 

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.” 

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.” 

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on. 

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.” 

-

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight. 

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city. 

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information. 

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.” 

“What are they?” Hotch asks. 

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says. 

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks. 

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.” 

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.” 

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.” 

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests. 

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation—catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.” 

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?” 

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.” 

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully. 

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.” 

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.  

“And?” Hotch asks. 

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.” 

Hotch frowns. You? 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.” 

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again. 

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.” 

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.” 

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up. 

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.” 

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.” 

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.” 

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died a year ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail nine months ago after a six year stint.” 

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.” 

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.” 

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.” 

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.” 

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.” 

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.” 

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says. 

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods. 

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him. 

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says. 

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks. 

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.” 

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him. 

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him. 

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?” 

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.” 

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.  

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?” 

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—” 

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.” 

“What would I do without you?” he asks. 

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.” 

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up. 

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him. 

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze. 

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind. 

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”  

And he does. 

-

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear. 

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale. 

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame. 

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner. 

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff. 

Of course you have to deal with this now. 

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down. 

“You’re already packed.” 

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.” 

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning. 

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask. 

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.” 

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

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.  

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?” 

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.” 

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.” 

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit. 

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”  

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him. 

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head. 

You take the box from him and smile thinly. 

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

-

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open. 

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.” 

“They haven’t been back, have they?” 

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail. 

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests. 

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.” 

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops. 

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff. 

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.” 

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit. 

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.” 

“I agree with you,” he says. 

“That’s it,” you muse. 

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up. 

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.” 

“…Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.” 

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?” 

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to. 

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.” 

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you saying?” 

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.” 

“What have they said about me?” he asks. 

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…” 

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.” 

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.” 

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.” 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.” 

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.” 

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home. 

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before. 

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard. 

Then, there’s nothing. 

-

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is. 

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at. 

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims. 

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger. 

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters. 

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him. 

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.  

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Hotch’s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?” 

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.” 

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.” 

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching. 

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up. 

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night. 

And now… 

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not. 

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?” 

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it. 

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.” 

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly. 

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him. 

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.” 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words. 

-

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why. 

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes. 

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs. 

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze. 

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.” 

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.” 

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body. 

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life. 

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.” 

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.” 

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?” 

“…You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.” 

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.” 

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.” 

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say. 

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.” 

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.” 

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises. 

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother was dead, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided. 

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?” 

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.” 

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.” 

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to. 

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly. 

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget. 

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out. 

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw your way back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here. 

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now. 

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.” 

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.” 

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.” 

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.” 

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says. 

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats. 

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.” 

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.” 

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?” 

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.” 

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you. 

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns. 

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think. 

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?” 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.” 

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave. 

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.” 

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?” 

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough—you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.” 

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.” 

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.” 

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.” 

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.” 

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”  

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you. 

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.” 

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you. 

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it. 

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground. 

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you. 

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him. 

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force. 

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead. 

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake. 

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms. 

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment. 

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.” 

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers. 

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron. 

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!” 

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete. 

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.” 

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name. 

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die. 

-

You wake up in the hospital alone.  

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you. 

The real surprise is that you wake up at all. 

Lucas is dead. 

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded. 

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real. 

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life. 

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day. 

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all. 

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life. 

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind. 

He was going to kill you. 

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU. 

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner. 

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him. 

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you. 

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly. 

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.” 

“And how long have I been here?” 

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.” 

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask. 

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…” 

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.” 

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.  

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?” 

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start. 

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.” 

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.” 

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.” 

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!” 

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.” 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—” 

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same. 

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper. 

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life. 

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.” 

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues. 

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number. 

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.” 

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner. 

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.” 

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together. 

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.” 

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.” 

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit. 

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.” 

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.” 

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.” 

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out. 

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.  

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.” 

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down. 

“Okay.” 

And he stays. 

This time, he stays.

[dyaz-stories]

say my name and everything just stops || gojo satoru x reader

synopsis: You welcome Gojo back after a mission that lasted longer than expected.

(He fucks you on your desk)

word count: 2.6k

genre: canon compliant, smut

cw: porn with some plot, porn with feelings, vaginal sex, fingering, gojo is a tease, light angst, some fluff too, reader is afab, implied fwb, gojo calls reader sensei but they're both teachers

a/n: just a little thing for fun and practice :) enjoy!

more gojo x reader here

Though the sun is setting outside, you’re still at your desk, dutifully filing paperwork. You’ve dismissed the students a long time ago, of course, but you haven’t left the classroom yet. The door sliding open, though you haven’t heard any footsteps, has you glancing up, on high alert. The worry dissipates right away when you’re met with familiar white hair, a broad grin, and all-black clothing.

“Well, well, sensei,” Gojo Satoru says as he approaches your desk with a nonchalant pace, hands in his pockets, “working late, are we?”

“Gojo,” you reply, eyes back on the paper sheet in front of you. “How was your trip?”

“You know you can just ask Ijichi to do that for you, right?” Gojo continues, now standing in front of your desk. “No need for you to do all that by yourself.”

“Ijichi is busy,” you answer, unperturbed by the way he ignored your question. “You’ve been gone a whole week. Did something go wrong?”

“Aw, sensei,” he coos, “were you worried?”

You put down your pen to look up at him. You’re always worried, obviously. While you’re a teacher at Jujutsu High, the main role you’re expected to fulfill is that of strategist, to better coordinate group actions. You wouldn’t be able to do that without being at least a little paranoid.

It just so happens that you are very paranoid.

Faced with your stare, Gojo’s grin widens.

“Well, I guess they were happy to have me around and they had me fix all the little problems they hadn’t been able to get rid of by themselves,” he tells you with a shrug. “If I didn’t do it, no one was going to, so, might as well get everything taken care of in one go.”

It’s hard not to openly grit your teeth at his words. You’re not thrilled about the way Gojo just gets used and shipped off to wherever the elders deem fit. You and Shoko, on the other hand, are expected to remain caged in the more ‘safe’ properties, all in the name of the greater good. You’re not sure what good it’s doing. You still know better than to say it out loud.

“You stopped by Shoko’s before coming here,” you say. It’s not a question, and his face lights up at it.

“One day, you’re really going to have to tell me how you do that.”

It’s not that hard. A light smell of smoke lingers around him; the last button of his shirt is unbuttoned, likely because of an examination; there’s a pen sticking out of his pocket that you suspect he’s stolen off her desk; and he’s not wearing his usual travel shoes, meaning he changed since coming back to Tokyo, and knowing him, you must have been close to the top of his list of people to see, so you don’t think he went home, so Ichiji must have brought them to him at the lab.

You could easily have been wrong, of course. You just made an educated guess, and it worked out well for you.

“I found something weird out there,” he states matter-of-factly. “Didn’t need any patching up. C’mon, don’t tell me you were worried?”

You roll your eyes and push your chair back to stand up. He should have been back three days ago, and you didn’t hear from him. Not that the way your relationship works means you should have. It explicitly doesn’t.

“We don’t know what kind of curses are out there,” you say. “Anything could happen.”

“Aw,” Gojo says. “But you know I’m the strongest. I can take everything they throw at me.”

He says it with such absolute confidence that you want to believe him blindly, but all your instincts rebel at that idea. You can’t let yourself think he’s invincible. You can’t make your plans based on that idea. There’d be too much to lose if— if—

“With how gloomy you look, it’s hard to think you’re happy to see me,” Gojo pouts. “And here I was, thinking I’d get a warm welcome back…”

You scoff, fighting the smile that wants to break on your face, then make to move past him. You have no intention of actually leaving of course, but you know that—

Of course, the second he thinks you’re getting away from him, he grabs your wrist and twirls you around and into him. His arm wraps around your waist smoothly, presses your chest against his.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit happy?” He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the very light twinge of annoyance in his voice.

You like to think that you are one of the few people that can get a rise out of him.

It goes both way, of course, but now that you’re in his arms, after a week without touching him, anger and fear melt away all too easily, and all you want is him.

You put both of your arms around his neck, and push yourself on your tiptoes to capture his lips. There is a second during which he remains still, as if unsure, no matter how unlike him that would be. It’s like you don’t have him back yet, like there’s a part of him, of his mind, that is still out there with the curses.

But the moment passes, and then he’s kissing you feverishly. He pushes you back until you hit your desk, then helps lift you on top of it. The papers you’ve filled so dutifully fall to the floor, but he doesn’t care and neither do you. His warm tongue meets yours and you feel small moans escaping you, which he swallows hungrily. One of his hands sneaks under your shirt, the other pushes up your long skirt as he lifts up one of your legs, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh.

You burry your hand in his hair, try to pull him closer to you, because fuck, you’ve missed him, you’ve missed the weight of his body on yours, and you want him, you need him to be as close as possible. He groans inside your mouth, and when your other hand moves down to trace his jaw, his neck, the muscles of his shoulders, before trying to unbutton his shirt, it turns into a full whimper.

Unfortunately, that sound also brings you back to reality, and while your body is an inferno right now, you feel your cheeks heating up even more.

“Wait, wait, Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he almost growls. Now that you’re trying to speak, he presses open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then down your neck, sucking and biting lightly at the skin.

“Satoru,” you whine, left with no strength nor desire to fight him on that, “we shouldn’t— students could—”

“They’ve gone home,” he dismisses your worries easily. “None of them are going to show up here at this time.”

He’s hooking his fingers in your panties now, trying to slide them down your legs, but you catch his arm first. You’re quite the spectacle, breathless and panting, clothes half off. Even then, there’s that serious light in your eyes that just has him weak in the knees.

“Yaga— Yaga could—”

“If you think about it, that’d be doing him a favor,” Satoru hums. “Would give him some really, really good material, if you ask me.”

He doesn’t add that the material in question is all his, and that he’d never let Yaga catch you in the act, just for that reason. He doesn’t have to, because his answer makes you laugh softly.

You always laugh for him.

“He better not find us,” you warn him, as your grasp on his arm relaxes.

“Hm, that shouldn’t be a problem, as long as a certain someone can keep quiet…”

You roll your eyes, and then you pull him back down against your lips to interrupt his laugh.

He manages to get your panties out of the way, and then pushes a long finger inside you. You’re already so wet for him, he marvels as it slides in easily. He soon follows it with a second one, spreading you open carefully, and that’s when you throw your head back, closing your eyes and pushing your hand against your mouth to muffle your moan.

“So you’ve really missed me, huh?” he can’t help but tease as he chases your mouth. He’d love nothing more than to hear you loud and clear, but he knows you won’t risk it, no matter how empty the school is right now.

Underneath him, your body trembles, and he can’t resist any longer. He pulls his blindfold out of the way, drinking in the most beautiful sight he’s ever beholden. You’re trying your best not to let the pleasure get to you, but even then, you manage to open an eye to look at him, and you’re met with the stunning blue eyes you wish you could see more often. Something softens inside you, and you reach up to touch his cheek.

“Of course I’ve missed you,” you answer.

Shit. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. He’s already rock hard and all he’s done is rock against you. He wanted to take his time with you tonight, because all he’s had the past week is the memory of you, and that’s nowhere near enough, but it’s not looking like he will last that long.

“Yeah?” he insists as his thumb finds your clit and he starts rubbing carefully. “Thought about me while I was gone?”

You let out a loud cry, manage to cover your mouth again before another one comes out. Your thighs are trembling around him, and fuck, he’s going to have to fuck you real soon, otherwise he’s just going to burst in his pants without you even touching him, at this point.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tells you as he pulls his fingers out of you to get rid of his pants. “Thought of how good you feel around me, of how good you sound for me, of how pretty you are when you’re bouncing on my cock…”

He guides his cock against your entrance, presses it against you. You buck your hips, unable to stop yourself, but he doesn’t give it to you, not just yet.

“You really want it that bad, don’t you?” he practically purrs.

“Satoru,” you whine, and oh, if you knew what it does to him when you say his name like that… “don’t make me b— Ah!”

Finally satisfied, he sheathes himself fully inside of you, and fuck, it’s all he’s been dreaming of for days now. Next time he swears he’ll come running back to you the second he’s done with the stupid assignment. You reach up for him and he lets you, lets you dig your nails into his shoulder blades as you bury your face in his neck to stifle your moans. His hips set up a lazy pace at first, and you try your best to follow, try to meet him with small movements of your own, before you feel his breath against your ear.

“It’s all good,” he says warmly. “Just let me take care of you, babe. I’ve got you.”

That’s when he picks up the pace, and you’re left to writhe underneath him, whimpering his name desperately against his skin like a prayer, Satoru, Satoru, Satoru!

You come, shaking, around him when he brings his fingers to your clit once more, and he doesn’t lose a second of it. The high-pitched moan that you just can’t hold in, the way your head falls back, how your thighs shake on either side of him, it’s all so perfect. You’re perfect.

He does his best to let you ride your orgasm on his cock, but he comes inside you just a couple seconds later, unable to last longer. He collapses on top of you, and your labored breathing fills the room. Your hand on his back moves gently, tracing circles on the nape of his neck, gently running through his hair.

“If you’re not down for a round two just yet, I recommend you stop that,” he mumbles against you, only to regret it immediately, because you do stop.

“We should— we should take this elsewhere,” you say quietly.

Ah, now that’s more like it.

“I can call Ichiji and we could do that in the back of the car on the way home,” he offers cheerfully as he gets up, putting the blindfold back in place, though not before he can see you grimace in horror at his suggestion.

“Absolutely not,” you say firmly, though once more, he was only teasing. He’d never let Ichiji see you like that. “Although, if you could call someone to come clean up in here, just, uh, just in case…”

Cute.

“Done. Now, about that round two…”

“Else. Where,” you insist, and you don’t fall for his cute pout.

He sighs but takes your hand to help you to your feet, then turns around as he pulls out his phone. He’s about to hit Ichiji’s number when your fingers on his skin almost bring a shiver out of him.

“Shouldn’t this be healing?” you ask, frowning, and he realizes you’re talking about the marks you’ve left on his back.

“Nah, I quite like them, actually,” he grins back. “Don’t you?”

There’s a lot of unsaid things that hang between the two of you. A lot of things that are better left unsaid. Sadly, you’re too smart for your own good, and you know better. You leave them be.

“I was worried for you,” is what do you say.

Satoru’s expression shifts. The grin vanishes, and you can’t see his eyes, so you’re not sure how he’s feeling, not until the corner of his lips lift up in a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he says, voice uncharacteristically low.

Then he turns away from you, and he’s as loud and boisterous as ever when Ichiji answers.

Of course. The strongest can’t let himself grow soft.

You bend down to pick up your papers, rearrange them neatly on the desk, eyes still on him, on the animated way he moves around the room.

You think you’re more grateful than he knows, for him being back here. Not because he’s the strongest, not because no one gets rid of a curse like he can, but because he’s Satoru. It’s probably better that way, though. You’re both too busy for distractions.

With a sigh, you put your papers back on the desk, then start moving towards the exit.

“Aren’t we going?” you ask Satoru right as you’re reaching the door.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“Hope you wrote all that down, ‘cause I need to get out of here,” he says on the phone, and you hear Ichiji protest, but that doesn’t stop Satoru from hanging up unceremoniously. He follows you in the hallway, shoulders brushing against yours without quite touching.

“Hey, if not in the car, there’s a supply closet on the first floor—”

“No.”

“Yaga’s office is probably—”

“Absolutely not.”

“How about in my bed?” he asks, right against your ear, breath tickling against your skin. Your cheeks heat up.

“…Sure.”

He only savors his victory for a second.

“What about the couch?”

“Don’t push it.”

But he does, and you let him.

How could you not, when you finally have him back?

still trying to get used to writing gojo's character, don't know if i quite have him just yet. i hope you enjoyed this, any feedback you have is welcomed and encouraged! reblogs and comments are what keeps me writing, so please engage with my work to let me know if you'd like to see more~

if you enjoy my writing, you can find more gojo x reader here

[villainbait]

Surprise Encounters

Pairing: None (Sylus x reader distantly implied) Rating: G Tags: coffee shop, secondhand embarrassment, canon sylus behavior, playful stalking, flirting, jealousy, crack, fluff Summary: Sylus stalks you to a new coffee shop in Linkon City, but it seems you two weren't the only ones who wanted to try it. Word Count: 1.1k

Someone was following you. 

It had been a long day at work and now there was the definitive sound of someone’s steps dogging yours as you approached the cafe. It wasn’t the one you usually enjoyed visiting, but you were in a hurry and going to duck in for a quick pick-me-up before heading out on yet another mission. Wanderer activity had been increasing lately, which left you exhausted most days so you were counting on this coffee to work miracles for your fatigue.  

Picking up the pace, you do your best to weave through the crowd and lose the person, happy to find you no longer hear the footsteps by the time you reach your destination. Your phone suddenly rings and you look down to find it’s Sylus. You don’t even bother answering it and reject the call. A text message accompanies the rejected call and you sigh in exasperation but before you can open it, you hear the dulcet tones of the current source of your annoyance behind you. 

“It’s not very nice to ignore a friend, kitten.” His voice is far too close to your ear and you pull away with a frown. Before you can retort, you see him glance at the cafe with a curious expression. 

“This isn’t your usual cafe, either.” 

“I’ve been busy,” you huff and look around nervously, before tugging on his sleeve and pulling him quickly into the cafe. The only reason you didn’t make a scene in public, you told yourself, was because you were worried your connection to the N109 Zone would be severed if Sylus was caught. Just because you wanted to punch him in his smug face sometimes didn’t mean you wanted to see him get hurt or worse. It still baffled you that the most wanted man in the world could simply chat with you on the street like this and not a single person knew. 

“What’s the hurry, sweetie?” he playfully murmurs as you march both of you up to the counter, but he’s more than happy to oblige as you both order. The baristas are charmed by Sylus but you don’t seem to notice, too busy bantering with him. 

“The hurry is that you seem nonchalant for a man in your situation.” 

“And what situation is that?” he replied smoothly, taking his card back from the blushing barista with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know,” you gesture vaguely as the two of you move to the end of the counter. You’re not sure if you want to lean away when Sylus puts his face close to yours but your pride won’t let you even if you did so you meet his gaze head on. “Oh? I don’t know that I do, so why don’t you say it?” He remarked, knowing that you wouldn’t give him away. At least not today, in this sunny little cafe where his defenses are low and there’s too many civilians. 

The little bell above the shop door jingles but you don’t notice it at first, your attention still focused on Sylus who hadn’t moved away despite his teasing. Still, with how he had leaned down you could see over his shoulder and you stopped breathing as a familiar face appears in your line of view. 

What was Zayne doing here? 

Sylus realizes mid-sentence you’re no longer paying him any attention and starts to look around and see what you’re gawking at. 

“No! Don’t turn around,” you hiss and jerk him closer to you, using his bigger body as a shield. He doesn’t mind that but his curiosity burns, one eyebrow raised. Opportunistic creature that he is, he slips an arm around your waist before you can protest.

“Why do you need me to hide you?” Sylus’s grin was anything but comforting. “Are you trying to avoid someone? Do I need to take care of it for you?”

The expression on your face must’ve been comical for Sylus chuckled. “You should see how you look right now. I want so badly to know who it is you’re hiding from.”

Zayne had made it to the counter now and you shifted to stay out of sight, still using Sylus to shield you if the other man looked over this way. The barista has the worst timing and offers your drinks at the same time Zayne steps towards the end of the counter. The two of you lock eyes. Time freezes. Zayne's gaze slowly slid from you to Sylus, whose arm was still slung low across your hips but it was too late for you to do anything but accept that. 

Sylus, meanwhile, doesn’t seem fazed and takes the cups one by one, handing yours to you and thanking the worker with a dazzling smile that makes her flustered and blush. “Hope you and your girlfriend have a great day!” she chirps cheerfully.

That immediately snapped you out of your shock and you turned with a disgusted frown. “I’m not-“

“Now, now there’s no need to be hurtful, sweetie.” Sylus interjects. “She's just trying to be nice. Besides,” he leans in close, his saccharine tone dropping an octave. “If you correct her, she might think she has a chance.” He swivels his cup to show you the number written cutely on the side of it and for some reason it makes you jealous and grumpy. 

Zayne’s order comes up quickly after and he inspects the number on his own cup before showing it the two of you. “Is this a new cup/service they perform here for every customer?” He remarks dryly, but there’s a hint of mischief in his expression. He shows the same number on the side of the cup and you have to hide a smile behind your hand. Sylus looks like he swallowed something sour and pulls out his phone. An awkward silence lingers and you almost wished a wanderer would appear in the cafe to save you from this situation. Still, you had to try to salvage the moment and you searched for something to say.

“Why don’t we sit down?” You try brightly and Sylus’s fingers dig into your hip but he doesn’t look up from whoever he’s texting. 

“Sure, and you can introduce me to your friend.” Zayne said calmly, but you’re panicking internally. “I thought I was your only friend, so I’m glad to see that isn’t true.” He was teasing you and you blushed. The two men turn to each other and Sylus tucks his phone away, business concluded. 

“Sylus.” He held out his hand. “Zayne.” They shake hands and you all find a small table to sit at.

They both focus their attention on you and you realize as your stomach churns nervously that this was going to be one interesting afternoon.

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

In particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. He is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. The years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

Rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. Discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. Lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

An apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. Joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. The man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that Miller guys passed between cowardly members of FEDRA and the keep away from Mr Miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

This plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. Somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become deadweight.

“So that’s all I am to ya, huh? Dead-fucking-weight?” His brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving Joel to do what Joel does best: endure.

Somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the deadweight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

She was an exception, his Tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. They’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

She never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. Contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging Joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

Which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of Tess’ foot against his shin.

“... And then,” Frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. With a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, Bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “Otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. We were finding paw-prints for days!”

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“Which means I was cleaning paw-prints for days.” Bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

Frank is quick to shush him.

“I’m sorry, again, Bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “I’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

There you sit, parallel to him.

The sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. It hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

You catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

The threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which Joel can account for, mouth too keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. The battle ends swiftly as you surrender to Bill’s hardened stare, and Frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and Tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

They get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

Silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and smothering you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun behind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

Being alone, with you, is something Joel’s never mastered. The affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

Were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

Something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. The dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

Just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

The ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and Joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. He’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

The pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never-ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“He likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

As if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in Joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. Standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and Joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

“Thinkin’ he might like ya more, Sol.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“Most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

He takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and Tess have made.

“You’ve got a whole load in common, you know? I think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“How the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” There he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. It helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“Well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. He’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “And have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

He’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

Discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘S easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. Doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

With you as its protector.

He doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. He watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. Your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

Survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

But I could keep you safe.

He toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. It’s not the first time he’s thought it. Truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

His memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just Bill, Frank and you. A few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night Joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was Frank who’d prompted the question. “Where were you all when... this started?” Tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’d never meet.

He never imagined her working in a bank.

Bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “Was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” He’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. She was barely out of school. “I knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” Frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

Joel had always been a good listener. Being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. Years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. All this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to Frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of Bill.

But you weren’t smiling.

He watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

The desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for Joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. With each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. He’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“You’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “Those we remember never truly die!”). He’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘Could keep you safe. There, then, the thought did cross his mind.

He’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

I'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. And he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“What?” The question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. In the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

The mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face Joel once more.

He sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “Don’t need ya to fix it.”

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

“Don’t you want to know the time?” You ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and Joel Miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

You smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

The German Shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to Joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

He’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. Nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. It’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“Ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” You’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “I’ve never heard any of the Joel Miller backstory, this should be-”

“I get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

There’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of Tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. The dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“Sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. Only, the gates have been shut in his face and Joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “But you’re wrong. I don’t like everyone.”

“‘S that so.” His eyes roll. The hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal Joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“Yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “I don’t like you, Joel.”

The hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

We’re staying, for tonight. Tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the QZ for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

The nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading Bill and Frank- mostly Frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. If only Joel could remember which door leads to yours.

The two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

Tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a FEDRA agent’s wife, you whisper that Frank and Bill had been fighting again recently. The memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of Tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly Bill and Frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

At some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. At another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

The words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

It’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“God, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. It was alright, I guess. I just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

He’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. A groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping Tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

You must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of Tess’ renewed shock fills the room. He wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

Late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

The couch beneath Joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp Tess gives. The last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

The crueler part of his mind replays your voice, I don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

You like Tess. Love her, even. It’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out Finally someone with a pair of boobs, I’m bored of the sight of my own. Joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

Maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“Must not have been doin’ ya right,” The bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. Joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. You’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. It’s oddly endearing that you think no one has noticed. Because he has, he always notices the little details that surround you. “This fella of yours.”

Joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

He does so, regardless.

“Well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “We were each others firsts.”

“That’s no excuse! Trust I left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time I went down.” Tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights Joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while Tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. No discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

You scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “What, are you offering your services?”

tThis he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which Tess has raised you to heaven on while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘As sure as I am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you I like my women a little older than you.”

He knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the QZ. It should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. But he can’t, and he won’t.

And you’re the one to blame.

You, with the glow of a thousand suns. You, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. You, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

His own self being the first he’d need fight.

Joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. Sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

The next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

He’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. Some small, meaningless little things, that ripple Joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. Others, tsunamis. Big, angry, all imposing. They’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

Amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. But the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. They catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. In the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

This evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. He reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. The gentle, barely-there croon of a Sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. Across from him is Tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. Snoring comes from below him, where Joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

You take up no space of this room.

Neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. Languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

There are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

He should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. A good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

He could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. Perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure Frank wouldn’t mind. Bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the QZ.

He would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. He imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. Skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

With a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. He swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. The door’s already half-opened, and Joel nearly thanks Christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. The darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

The refrigerator.

It’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. A subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly Joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

Keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

She never lived long enough to get either.

He catches something move beneath the artificial light. Cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“Why aren’t ya sleepin’?” The words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

He curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

You’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. Whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, Joel remains unaware.

He grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. The door behind him closes over and gives the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“I asked first.” You laugh, at him. Full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. The corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. He hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you. Bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘S so funny, huh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. Perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “Just never heard the Joel Miller say something so childish. You’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

You make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. A fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. Uncouth and unbothered, Joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“You know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” You call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. The thirst does not budge. He hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

By the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“iIm making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “Make sure you take some with you when you leave. Tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

Would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? Four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his Tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. He’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Of course you would do the same. Not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. Nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. Patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. All words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. They violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over Joel’s entire persona.

He straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. The sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. His hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of Tess and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what Joel hears.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. You’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

And, suddenly, Joel’s angry. At you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. The fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

Only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

A hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving Joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. Without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise Joel gifts you.

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

“Why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “Don’t ya like me?”

If not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “Why do you care?”

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

“Hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody Tess was playing in the living room. “Sure sounds like you do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

Joel knows he cares. It’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to Bill and Frank’s.

What Joel doesn’t know is why he cares. There’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. He’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

Maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

Instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

Not one bit.

Joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. His feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. His chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

He inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“For the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘S just like how I sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. No part of him should ever be compared to you. “I don’t like ya either.”

He’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

The knife never ceases its movement. Back and forth, back and forth. Chop, chop, chop. Blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. It’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding Joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. Perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

The hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“That’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“You only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. His wandering touch halts. “A little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what I think.”

This strikes a nerve. Fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. The realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “D’ya know what I think?”

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

“I think you’re a brat. A silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” You could. He’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. Knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

Animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. His gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

Your dress- red, a colour Joel Miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“You like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“No, I don’-” Dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “Joel.”

He retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. Whoever Joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“Heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and Tess. The blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ Talkin’ bout your past.”

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

You give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“Tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. His hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. Near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “I wouldn’t.”

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

“Too bad I’m-” You cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. With a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, Joel watches you like a hawk. The twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. The want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “Too bad I’m not offering you the chance.”

Joel Miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. With notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“Who said anything about an offer?”

The descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

A part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

The other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. You’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

Smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs that seem longer than any tree in the Amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the Himalayas. Arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

Your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. Perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, Joel knows how to read people. And, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

Joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

You breathe in, you breathe out.

One knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. He revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

Inhale, exhale.

Your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“Hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the Texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. All he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. With the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “Don’t move.”

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

Lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. One flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. A wet patch, your wetness. The stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

Curiosity gets the better of him- one day, Joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers digging themselves into the waistband of your panties and around the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

The lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. A heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. He makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

Delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. There’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. Joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. He wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. He thinks it must hurt.

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“Ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. Though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in Joel’s peripheral vision.

“Shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “People are tryin’ to sleep.”

You scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “Tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘S that an invitation to see how loud I can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. This, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “Or a challenge?”

“It’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. Asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

As coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some Playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. So he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. He awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

It’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“You’re drippin’,” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. The view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘S actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. Is it 'cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

He can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

But first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. Much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. Perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

Cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for Joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. Soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

Rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

It happens so suddenly, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of Tess. He wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. Joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

So he does the same.

Working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. He breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

Two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“So now you shut up. ‘S the matter, huh?” He’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “Am I too borin’ for ya?”

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

“Tess was right, ya know?” He can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. He pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. Three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “That boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

The common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better-, if you’d just let him.

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

That’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. He’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“Is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? What ya need is a man, a man like me!” The softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension. God, it’s never sounded sweet, and Joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“Well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. He imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “But if ya insist.”

Diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. The tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

Licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

He’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by experience that only comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. You’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

He’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

It’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. It’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. It’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever remaining days he shall possess on his knees before you.

And all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar-sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

His only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

Hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

Burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. It does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“N- Ah,” You can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “No, don’t, not there.”

Next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

Sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip out every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. The sound of whatever record Tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

And, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

His eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within Bill and Frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. There’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time Tess tells him they’re due a visit.

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

Glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. You, with a hand gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

And then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

The image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

You back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. Becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

Fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “Let me do the honours this time though.”

You don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. He imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

He’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

You’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. Your expression, he can’t quite read. Not sad, not happy, not mad.

Your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

The discomfort of trekking back to the QZ will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“Joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. Hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. Legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

He swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. Strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. He’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“That,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

Joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

People once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. As sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. Not today, however, and Joel Miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

It chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. There’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

That dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

He cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “No, not again. My back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, Joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the German Shepherd’s head. It whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. A scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “Not so bad, are ya? Huh?” Never in a million years did Joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and Tess had set out for their routinely visit to the Bill and Frank’s. Never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, Texas?”

He tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

The world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

So instead, it sends you.

Peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than UV rays could ever be. He’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. A few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. At the very least, he considers, I’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

The smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. When he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. He does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. Upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“Thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. You’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “Won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

A queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. He’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “No problem, thanks... for feeding Tess and I.”

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

You shoot off back inside so quickly that Otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. With an idle pet to his head as you pass by, Joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. In your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“I wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and Joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. He can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “I know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“Why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

Pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

You show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him. “There should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

It’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and Joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

“And I’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for Tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “Winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

He grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "Answer me." Like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"For someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. You don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “You sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

“Or, what?” You’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “You gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

Had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. Truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. Perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

Instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

Joel says nothing.

“How about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and Bill make.” Inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. Clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “You get me something, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

He grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “What d’ya want? ‘Cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. I ain’t messing with none of Bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“A dress.”

“A dress?” The statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“Yes, and don’t look at me like that!” It’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “I need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

Unaware he’d even began to lean closer, Joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“Joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

Neither of you dare to break eye contact. Again, his name is yelled. This time, he manages to identify Tess as the owner of the voice. Habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of Tess or you.

His feet remain glued to the ground.

Tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “Think you might be needed inside, macho man. Your missus is calling.”

“She ain’t my-”

“You two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” Tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

Only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does Joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. In her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. You approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“I should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. He decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “Go check on the food, before it burns.”

You’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

Tess and him hit the road by noon. Earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. The bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun breaking through the clouds and heating the world with its rays. He walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from Tess and wracking his brain for answers.

Answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. Answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the QZ. Answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven Bill’s created. Answers to why you don’t like him.

I don’t like you, Joel.

It motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. If he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but Tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

[neyafromfrance95]

galadriel & sauron vs. morgoth theory + trop.

we all love the theory that sauron and galadriel would eventually fight side by side against morgoth.

if u think about it, trop is a perfect groundwork for this theory.

in trop, it is implied that sauron and galadriel meet by eru's design and their connection is destined. but why?

sure, galadriel has a hand in sauron's defeat, but so do many others. why does galadriel and sauron's relationship have to be so special and significant on the cosmic scales, above everything else?

in lotr, galadriel passes the test by the end of the 3rd age. she outgrows her pride and selfish need to rule without sharing her power with anyone and determination to rule the middle-earth even if it means becoming a terrible tyrant.

but it's interesting how later frodo sees galadriel through her phial's light:

“frodo took the phial, and for a moment as it shone between them, he saw her again standing like a queen, great and beautiful, but no longer terrible. he bowed, but found no words to say.”

i wonder if this is a subtle implication that galadriel has finally became worthy of succeeding her father one day. her father is the high king of the elves in valinor, and while he has sons, no one is as great as galadriel. tolkien himself commented on galadriel's commanding stature in valinor - "the equal if not unlike in endowments of fëanor." and "(galadriel) being mighty among the eldar, obtained this grace (entering valinor) for him (gimli)."

it has been generally agreed upon that since tolkien wrote several versions of it, galadriel’s story is convoluted, contradictory and inconsistent. but one thing has always remained at the core of her characterization - she is a politician who desires to be a leader. so ofc she would still be a politician in valinor, but it's interesting to imagine she would become a queen after outgrowing her greed and her time in the middle-earth was a neccessary test to shape her into a perfect leader.

considering trop canon, it can be said that even after everything, if sauron was to repent, galadriel would be the one to vouch for him or bring him up in a conversation regarding the battle against morgoth (and the first of all valinor to march to fight again).

another thing to note is that now, the only connection to the physical world sauron would have after the destruction of the one ring is galadriel's scar that binds them by blood! they have been bound by the sea, their admission of cosmic connection, nenya, and their souls are basically merged.

trop interestingly underlines the undertones of galadriel and sauron's comparability - they are mirrors that represent the light and the dark, but also galadriel is a natural born leader and sauron is a natural born follower. underneath sauron's desire to possess her, is the desire to serve and worship her as his queen!

and more importantly, his repentant phase in the show was when he was following her, when his presence actually was healing for galadriel.

so what does all of this have to do with haladriel vs. morgoth theory and how trop lays a groundwork for it?

galadriel's authority in valinor, sauron being bound to her, and galadriel being the one who makes sauron actually go back to his maiar purpose that valar ordained - the one who provides servitude and healing, all of this would make galadriel the perfect candidate to bring back sauron and make the valar consider his repentance.

as for sauron, by then, he would have enough time to get humbled and face what he knows subconsciously - he was meant to serve the light of his leader, not some silly ass rings. and by then, as we said, galadriel would have became even more perfect of a leader, maybe closer to how sauron saw her - a queen for all, a perfect antidote to morgoth. (and having outgrown her pride, galadriel would be able to admit her love and be by sauron's side as well.)

sauron says that after morgoth was defeated, he could feel the light of the one (eru) again and he knew if he ever was to be forgiven, he needed to heal everything he had helped ruin. he comes to see that light in galadriel. by helping her, he gets to receive "forgiveness" from the one he helped ruin ("i'm sorry for your brother, for everything" -> "whatever you did, be free of it"). he tells her that he never believed he could be free of it (morgoth's darkness) until fighting by her side (following her lead, serving her, healing her) and he wishes to bind that feeling (of being bound to galadriel's light) to his very being. and his subconscious screams at him that nothing he does will ever give him what he wants unless it's galadriel by his side, unless it's her light he worships ("your beauty still overshadows everything i could possibly write" ->"worship the light of its queen").

his repentance is tightly intertwined with his bond with galadriel and him coveting her light. he believes that he can be free of his bond to morgoth's darkness if he binds himself to galadriel's light instead. it's just that he can only truly repent if being bound to her light happens on *her* terms. in that case, they can be the force of the good together, pulling each other back from the darkness.

(it is interesting how in sauron's vision, his crown disappears once it's aligned with the sun, as if galadriel's light destroys it. girlboss taming her malewife but make it epic.)

whatever it is, i need one of u haladriels to adapt this theory on screen one day in the future.

[egophiliac]

Have you heard of the "Crowley is Malleus' dad" theory going around? Where Prince Levan (or whatever his name is) didn't actually die and just went out to get some milk and is now known as Dire Crowley, the silly man? The implications of that theory is absolutely hilarious when you think about it

hold on, we can figure this out, we just need LISTS

PROS THAT CROWLEY IS SECRETLY REVAAN/LEVAN/LAVERNE/WHATEVER:

unspecified fae of some kind, with similar coloring to Mal

the animal masks are apparently a Briar Valley thing

has some kind of big blackmailable secret that was alluded to in episode 4, and then as far as I know never brought up again

(unless this was just Azul bullshitting, which is extremely possible)

based on Diablo, which...maybe means something?

has canonically worn Dad Shorts

CONS:

(gestures to Crowley's entire personality)

NO LISTEN Revaan was the guy they sent off on diplomatic missions and to take care of delicate political situations, and...look, I love this dweeb, but would you trust Crowley to be in charge of negotiating your war treaties

despite my brain insisting on reading his name as "Raven", Revaan's title does imply that he was also a dragon (or super into longan berries, I'm not ruling that out)

currently unclear why Lilia "my closest friend Revaan...he is no longer with us...I used to make fun of him for being kind of a priss about eating jerky..." Vanrouge has somehow not noticed or said anything

Malleus' Aloof Anime ~Aristocrat~ vibe had to come from somewhere, and by all accounts it was NOT his mom's side of the family

???:

turns into a bird in the opening, I don't know if that means anything but it's kinda cool, I guess

all that aside, if Malleus and Yuu are any indication, then the Draconias have...questionable taste in their social choices. so anything is possible!

[steviewashere]

I'd Like For You and I To Go Romancing

Rating: Teen and Up CW: None apply Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Sex, Self-Sacrificing Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Love Confessions, Lover Boy Steve Harrington, Sad Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart For @steddieangstyaugust Day 21 Prompt: "Please." Title taken from "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen.

💕——————💕 “Please.”

It’s said to him so quietly, Eddie almost doesn’t hear it. The same way he can’t really see, can’t make out the shapes in the room despite the one light through the window. Maybe it’s the panic in him, while he’s trying to fight his way through tears as he pulls his clothes back on. But the word whispered at his back makes him take pause.

A desperate little word. He wants it to mean something.

Eddie swallows. Quickly, he goes back to shimmying his jeans back on. Hits his rings on the belt buckle currently hanging loose from the loops of his pants. 

It’s not that he wants to go, but it’s that he should. He’ll give some lame excuse later. Something about Wayne needing him back home—despite it being late at night, despite the fact that everybody knows Wayne works the nightshifts. He’ll say it’s because he gets anxious sleeping in other people’s beds. That he even wets the bed sometimes, even if he stopped doing that more than a decade ago. Gets nightmares so violent and lurching, he’s afraid he’ll hurt somebody. He could say that he actually hates sleeping with another person in his bed.

Despite everything in him screaming that he needs it. Because he’s a lonely, lonely person. And always wanted somebody there, needed them so close they could almost climb inside his ribs.

But he fastens the buckle of his belt and continues on with finding his t-shirt.

“Please,” whispered again, so singular, yet so drawn out, and so heartbreaking. The word pierces through Eddie’s back, kills his heart on impact, and exits his chest in one clean pass. It makes him stop searching again. “Don’t go. You don’t have to go.”

Oh, but I do, Eddie thinks, because if I let this go on any longer than it already has, I’ll have to admit how much I love you. And if I admit it and you say nothing in response, I’ll implode right on the spot. I’m saving myself. I’m saving you.

He sniffs. Grabs a random t-shirt from the bedroom floor and begins to pull it over his heavy head of curls. It’s not his shirt, he comes to find, but isn’t surprised. It’s loose on his chest, but tight on his biceps. The shirt is lightly worn. Smells like amber, like cinnamon and vanilla. Not his cologne. Not like cigarettes or marijuana or citrus-bergamot from his Irish Spring. Eddie plucks at the fabric, pulls it farther away from the skin of his chest, where his heart—resuscitated—tries to kiss the shirt with every beat.

If he doesn’t get out of here, he’ll do something stupid like break down into tears. If he doesn’t get out of here, he won’t save face. And if he doesn’t get out of here, he can’t move on.

A pleading, “Eds, please,” hits him. “Please don’t go. Don’t do this to me, too. Please, baby, come on.” Then, the bed behind him shifts. And there’s warmth on his back. A gentle brush of lips to his neck.

Steve wasn’t as sleepy as Eddie thought. Go figure.

“I…I gotta go, Steve,” Eddie states quietly, “I checked my watch. Gotta be home for Wayne, y’know?” He remains as still as he possibly can. Because Steve can read him, he’s come to find. He’ll know that Eddie’s lying if he shifts from foot-to-foot even an inch.

“He’s not home right now,” Steve immediately points out, “it’s dark out. And it’s a weekday, he’s working.”

Eddie swallows again. “I just have to go, Steve.” He doesn’t face him, doesn’t think he could. Doesn’t move, also doesn’t think he could. Just hopes, beyond all else, that Steve will just accept that and go back to bed and forget this night ever happened. That he ever touched Eddie that way. That he ever let himself get involved with a person like Eddie—not because he’s a freak and not because he’s in a different tax bracket, not that he’s above Steve, not that he’s below Steve…because he’s just him.

He hears Steve heave a deep breath.

Then, soft and tiny, “I was going to make you breakfast,” Steve says, “but this doesn’t have to…we can forget this happened if that’s what you want to do.”

“I…Steve”—

“It’ll be hard for me to let go, but I can try.” That makes Eddie turn to Steve. To see him. His limp, sweaty hair and the fact he’s only wearing boxers. The downcast eyes and twisting, nervous hands in front of him. “You’re not the first, so I’ll be fine.”

Eddie’s stomach churns and his palms sweat and he swears that his heart is the loudest thing in this room—screeching and beating and crashing straight out of him. But he brings himself to meet Steve’s volume, to ask, “What do you want, Steve?”

“I want you to stay,” Steve immediately responds, “I want you to stay in bed with me. And…and I’ll wake up first and maybe I’ll find out that you drool in your sleep and then I’ll brush back a stray strand of your hair and I want to get up and make you breakfast and then you’ll be over the moon when I hand you a cup of coffee and it’s made the exact way you love it and then we can…we can…you can…”

He blinks. Blinks again. Harder the third time. “You can…?” Eddie prompts.

“You can find somebody worth loving out of me,” Steve timidly answers, “because I already love you.”

Unable to hold himself back anymore, he takes the few steps forward to put him face to face with Steve. And, in a moment of bravery, holds Steve’s head between his hands and kisses him. Soft and exploratory. Then, passionate and disbelieving. And another, for good measure, that’s in the shape of all the words he wants to say.

“You want that with me,” Eddie states, though it sounds more like a question. Steve nods anyway. “With me. Wow. I…I wish I was better at this part, at saying the good shit. But I do love you, Steve. I’ve been in love with you since we started this whole thing between us but I…I’ve never had something like this and it terrifies me the way you’ve nestled your way into my brain.” He runs his thumbs under Steve’s eyes, catching tears he won’t acknowledge, because he’s sure he’d start crying, too.

“Do you still have to go?” Steve asks quietly, small in a way that’s unlike him. “I don’t want to keep you here if you don’t want to be”—

“I’ll stay, Steve. I’m sorry that I…I’ll stay, I promise. Let me just—let me get dressed down again and I’ll make all this up to you, swear it.” He’s jittering out of his skin; he wants to run laps through the whole house, wants to climb the walls, scream if he has to. But, in a way that’s unlike him, he continues to cradle Steve’s face in his palms and with languid, thoughtful movements, he kisses Steve between his eyebrows, under his eyes, the tip of his nose, and again on his mouth. “I’ll stay as long as you want me,” Eddie promises, “you won’t have to worry about somebody leaving ever again.”

Steve smiles sticky sweet and soft like a stack of pancakes. “Good,” he whispers, “because I never want to let you go.”

💕——————💕

[jetii]

A Dance With Danger

Pairing: Hunter x fem!Reader

Words: 19,621 (oops!)

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! friends to lovers, implied trauma and sex work, sexual assault type situations, canon typical violence, protective!Hunter, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, primal kink kinda? it's Hunter so...

Summary: Life has been pretty good since Hunter and the Batch unexpectedly entered your life, but you can't help but want more. When Cid offers you a job you can't refuse, you find yourself drawn back into the life you worked so hard to escape from, and Hunter's protective nature doesn't help.

A/N: I've had this one saved in my drafts for literal years, and it's a relief to finally post it. Somewhere along the way this got way longer than I intended so it's a bit of a hike to get to the smut.

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With a confident stride, you make your way through the colorful chaos of Ord Mantell City's market, a covered satchel slung over your shoulder. The city has no set market square. Instead, makeshift stalls and tents offering a variety of goods dot both sides of the street, creating a maze-like sprawl.

You focus your attention on your path, making sure not to bump into any of the other beings that are hurrying past you. The crowd thins a bit as you leave the main bazaar and head down a series of increasingly narrow and deserted side streets. A few minutes later, you step out of a shadowy passageway and into a dimly lit back alley.

Suddenly, loud gasp escapes you as you feel yourself being tugged forward and pulled into the alley's darkness, a pair of strong hands on your waist.

Before you can react, you’re yanked onto your toes and pinned against the wall, a knife jutting into the delicate skin of your neck.

"You’re dead,” a voice rasps.

But you feel no fear. Instead, you smile and laugh, leaning in to the edge of the vibroblade and pushing your body against the hard contours of the man who holds you. The weapon quickly pulls away from your neck before it can slice into you.

“Hunter!” you say, your voice laced with amusement.

In the near dark, you see his eyes flash in annoyance. 

“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” Hunter admonishes.

“Oh, I’m plenty aware.”

Your eyes flicker downward toward the blade held deftly in your own hand, its tip poised towards the seam in his chest plate. He follows your gaze, eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise, before he draws back and sheathes his weapon.

He gives you a begrudging smile as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Fair play.”

You wink, sliding your knife into the sheath on your thigh. "What brings you to this end of town, Hunter? Business or pleasure?"

"Bit of both, really," he answers with a smirk, and you roll your eyes. "I had a delivery to make in the area."

You reach out to straighten the cloth around his shoulders, the red fabric soft and worn. "And how much was your cut?"

Hunter tilts his head, regarding you for a moment. "Not nearly as much as you'd think."

You pat his shoulder. "It never is, is it?"

“Where are you off to?” he asks as your hand retreats.

“Got a meeting with Cid. Walk with me?”

He nods, falling into step beside you as you begin to walk back through the market towards the arcade.

You move through the crowd in a comfortable silence, occasionally brushing against one another as you maneuver your way through the throng. You notice his gaze lingering on you as you walk, and a small smile crosses your lips. You’ve caught him looking before, but you never tire of seeing him do it.

You’re no stranger to the attention of men, and there was a time when you had relished it, but those days are long gone. Thankfully now, as you walk with Hunter, the gazes of the merchants and the other men seem to slide off you, unnoticed.

There's something different about him. He came into your life unexpectedly, and though his presence has disrupted the careful order of your days, it’s a welcome change.

He makes you feel safe. Protected. Wanted.

And he certainly isn’t hard on the eyes.

"So," Hunter begins, glancing at you. “You talk to her yet?”

“Ugh, yeah.” You roll your eyes. “Never heard her laugh so much before.”

As your foot kicks a rock in your path, he fixes you with a sympathetic look, but he doesn't say anything to try to comfort you. You like that about him — Hunter isn't a man of many words, so when he does speak, they count. And he never seems to tire of listening to you, somehow always knowing when you want to share something and when you want to stay in silence. He's good company.

“She said ‘it'll be a cold day on Mustafar before I let a circus freak tell me how to run my business,'" you say, altering your voice as you recall your boss's words. Normally, mimicking the Trandoshan makes you feel better in times like these, but it only serves to make your blood boil more.

Hunter sucks a breath through his teeth in a wince, knowing that you don't take that insult lightly. He stops walking and turns to face you, putting his hand on your shoulder to pull you aside before you can reach the arcade’s door. His hand is warm and firm, and you find yourself wanting him to leave it there.

"Hey. Look at me." His tone is commanding, but you detect a hint of warmth. You meet his gaze, taking in the rich brown of his eyes, the lines on his brow.

"Don't worry about Cid. You'll get your chance." He leans closer to you, and you're surprised at the tenderness in his voice.

A grin creeps across your lips.

"Hunter, are you giving me a pep talk?"

His expression doesn't change.

"Just a little encouragement," he says, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

You sigh. You want to believe him, but he doesn't know Cid like you do.

"She's right, though. I am a circus freak," you mutter.

"I don't see it," Hunter replies. "I mean, you are a bit of a show-off, but..."

You give him a shove, and he laughs, his eyes crinkling. You love when he does that — his smiles are few and far between, so you treasure every one you manage to elicit.

You shake your head at him, smiling in spite of yourself.

"Well, thanks. I'll take it."

He nods, removing his hand from your shoulder, a ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Anytime."

Hunter opens the door for you, and you make your way through the arcade, weaving past a group of Pantorans who are huddled together arguing over Sabacc. Hunter's brothers are already posted up at the bar, their usual spot. Omega is seated on the counter next to a bottle of some kind of soda, her legs dangling and kicking.

Cid looks up from behind the bar, her reptilian eyes narrowing in on you immediately.

"You're late," she barks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Had an appointment," you answer, giving the Trandoshan a saccharine smile. Cid doesn't ask for details, just snorts and gestures for you to join her in the back.

Omega looks at you and waves. "Hi!"

"Hey, kid," you reply, giving the girl a little wave in return. "How you doing?"

Omega's eyes light up as she speaks to you. "Good! We just got a new job. Well, we're waiting for the client to show up."

"Oh, really? That's exciting." You turn your gaze to the others, who are all looking at you, and offer a small smile. You're still a bit embarrassed by your behavior the last time you were on a job together, when you made an impulsive move and got yourself injured.

You spent several days recovering in the clinic, bored out of your mind, until one afternoon, Omega showed up to keep you company. You didn't mind her company; she was a sweet girl, and a smart one, too. She reminded you a bit of yourself at that age, though with a much better head on her shoulders.

Your attention returns to Hunter, whose brown eyes are fixed on you. He has a curious look on his face, like he's trying to puzzle something out, and you're tempted to ask him what he's thinking.

Omega looks back and forth between you, clearly noticing the silent exchange, and you give her a little wink, causing her to grin.

"Well," you say, turning toward the hallway that leads to Cid's office. "Have fun on your next job, guys."

"We will!" Omega calls after you.

In Cid's office, the older woman is seated behind her desk, the same scowl on her face that she has every time you come into the room. It doesn't matter how many times you go in there, or how much Cid trusts you — it's like her face is stuck that way.

"Sit," Cid commands, pointing a claw toward the chair in front of her desk.

You sit down, placing the satchel on your lap. The Trandoshan stares you down, her yellow eyes piercing.

"You're not gonna believe what I'm about to tell you," Cid begins.

"You're right," you reply. "I won't."

Cid snorts, a sound that you have grown used to over the years, and reaches for the bottle of liquor sitting on her desk. You watch her pour two glasses and slide one over.

"What's the job?"

Her answering grin reveals sharp teeth, and you know you're going to like what she’s about to say. "The biggest one I've ever landed. It's gonna be worth a fortune."

"Well, spill." You lean forward, propping your elbows on your knees.

"There's this artifact." Cid lowers her voice. "A crystal."

You frown. Not what you were expecting.

"Oh."

"It's supposed to give its bearer great power," Cid continues, undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm.

"Sounds like a load of bantha shit to me."

"Yeah, I know." The Trandoshan sighs, scratching her chin with her claw. "I told him I didn't believe in that crap, but the guy said he was willing to pay us 500,000 credits. Can you believe that? I can finally fix this place up, make it nice."

"500,000, huh?"

"Yeah."

You purse your lips. "Why don't we just grab the thing and sell it ourselves? Seems like there might be people out there who would be interested."

Cid narrows her eyes. "That's not how I do business, kid. If the client knows the location, it's better if we just do the job and collect the pay."

"And what if it's a set-up?"

"Then we deal with it." Cid leans back in her chair, taking a sip from her glass. "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

"I see." You pick up your own glass and take a swig. The liquid burns as it makes its way down your throat, but you enjoy the feeling. Better than sitting here sober, anyway. “This sounds too easy, Cid. All I have to do is go to this place and grab the crystal? That's it?"

"It's a little more complicated than that.” Cid shifts in her seat. You bite back a groan. “You see, it's already been stolen. The client hired us to find it and bring it back to him. He's got the money and the location of the thief."

"Oh, that's wonderful," you say. "Anything else I should know?”

"The thief is on his way to Nal Hutta to make a deal," Cid says, and your heart leaps to your throat. You immediately start to shake your head, the words escaping your lips in a rush.

"Cid, no. I'm not going back there."

"You go where I tell you to go.” She bares her sharp teeth, hissing.

"Cid, I'm not."

Cid snarls and rises to her feet. Her hands slam down on the desk and rattle the glass and the bottle. “This is a huge job, kid. We're gonna make bank."

"Why don't you send someone else?"

"Because I'm sending you.” She jabs a claw in your direction. "I've got a lot riding on this, so I need you to go and bring me the damn crystal."

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. The fight bleeds out of you as you realize that you won't be able to change her mind. “How?”

Cid's demeanor changes, and she relaxes, settling back into her seat. She picks up her glass and takes a sip, gesturing toward you with it. "It's pretty simple, really. You’re going back to your roots. Word around Hutta Town is Nola’s cantina is looking for new dancers, and I said I knew just the girl for the job.”

You feel yourself tense, and your fingers clench the arms of the chair.

"Oh, so you want me to dance for this guy? Maybe suck him off in the back room while I'm at it?" you snap, not bothering to mask the disgust in your voice.

Cid doesn't seem affected by your words, her expression remaining neutral. "Do whatever you have to, kid." She shrugs. "Just bring me back that crystal."

You take a deep breath, exhaling loudly. "Fine."

“What?” 

A voice just outside the door gives you both pause. Your eyes widen, and Cid looks downright murderous.

A moment later, Hunter bursts into the room, boots eating up the ground between him and Cid's desk before you can blink. He crosses his arms, fixing Cid with a look that would've made a lesser being tremble. 

“Absolutely not."

Your eyes widen in disbelief, and Cid's lip curls.

“You should keep that big nose out of business that doesn’t concern you, bandana,” Cid hisses, rising from her chair again. “She’s a big girl. One who works for me and does what I tell her to."

You sigh and rub your temples. "Hunter, please —"

"No," he snaps, his gaze still trained on the Trandoshan. “You’re sending her to steal from the Hutts without backup. That concerns me.”

“Hunter, I'll be fine,” you try to interject.

“Like hell you will be.” He glares at you, and you blink, mouth falling open. You haven't seen him this worked up in a long time, and you’re not sure how to feel about it. You rack your memory for the last time someone came to your defense like this and come up short. It’s a little flattering, but it also stings a bit.

Cid slams her fist down on the desk. You flinch, and Hunter doesn't move.

"Listen closely," Cid growls. "She's my employee. I'm her boss. She's not your responsibility. Now get out of here."

Hunter's gaze is hard. You watch the muscles in his jaw twitch.

"She can also take care of herself," you interject, and Cid points at you.

"That's right, she can."

Hunter whirls on you, his face incredulous.

"You can't be serious," he spits.

"I've done a lot worse for a lot less," you remind him, standing up. You're trying to stay calm, but his words are starting to get under your skin. You hate that you have to explain yourself.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Hunter snaps. He’s nearly shouting now, and you grit your teeth. You're starting to lose your patience, and you can feel a familiar tightness building in your chest.

"I don't care how you feel. She's been doing this for a long time," Cid growls, baring her teeth. “Longer than you’ve been alive, probably."

Hunter turns to face her, and you watch him square his shoulders, preparing to go toe-to-toe with the Trandoshan. You wonder if he has a death wish, but part of you can't help but be intrigued by his brazen display.

You shake your head, reaching for the bottle of liquor.

You know Hunter and Cid are arguing, their voices becoming more heated, but the words fade away as you lift your glass to your lips and swallow. The alcohol is sweet and strong, burning down your throat and spreading heat through your limbs. You’re beginning to feel better already until the next words out of Hunter’s mouth hit your ears.

"You can't expect me to sit idly by and allow—"

“Allow?” You slam the glass down on the desk. The sound echoes throughout the small office, and Cid and Hunter both fall silent, turning their heads toward you. You fix Hunter with a glare, your eyes narrowed. "Excuse me, what exactly do you think you can do to stop me?"

Hunter's jaw clenches. "I can make you see reason."

"Or you could let her do her job," Cid says, a cruel smirk twisting her lips. “Listen to her if you know what’s good for you.”

"No." He crosses his arms. “She's not going alone. It’s suicide.”

"Well, it's a good thing it's not up to you." You stand up and take a step closer, squaring up to him. You're shorter than he is, and he has a good deal of bulk on you, but he doesn't intimidate you.

Hunter's eyes widen, and you think he looks a little taken aback, maybe even a bit impressed. But the emotion doesn't last long.

His brow furrows, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to find another way to convince you to listen to him.

"I'm not letting you go."

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. This is not the first time you've disagreed about a mission, and it certainly won't be the last, but this time, you won't allow him to talk you out of it. Not with a take this big.

"Look, Hunter," you say, keeping your tone light, "I appreciate the concern, but I can handle it."

His expression shifts, and the anger and frustration in his eyes give way to disappointment. You try to ignore the way it stings.

"This is how I make my living. It's just a job, like any other," you say softly, hoping he can hear the sincerity in your voice.

He looks at you for a moment longer, his eyes searching your face.  Then he crosses his arms and shakes his head. "That's not good enough for me."

"Well, it's all I have."

He sighs and closes his eyes. “No. You're not going alone.” 

“Hunter—“

“I’m coming with you.”

The air around you seems to still. Cid sucks in a breath. Your brows knit together.

"What?" you ask.

Hunter's eyes meet yours, his expression determined. "I'm coming with you. You need backup."

You shake your head. "Hunter, no. I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not asking." He's smiling, and it's a soft, genuine smile. He places a hand on your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. His gaze is warm, and it fills you with an unexpected sense of calm. "I'm offering."

You can tell he's serious, and the thought of him accompanying you both excites and terrifies you. You know you're strong and capable, but the idea of working with a partner again has you feeling nervous.

And the idea of working with Hunter specifically? Well, it does things to your insides that you don't care to examine too closely.

"What about the others?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"They can manage without me."

"That's not fair. You can't abandon them because of me.”

Hunter gives your shoulder a little shake, his expression earnest. "I'm not abandoning anyone," he says gently. “I'm coming with you. They will be fine. They're more than capable of taking care of themselves."

"I... Hunter, I don't know."

He lets out a quiet chuckle and removes his hand from your shoulder, the absence of his touch making you feel strangely bereft.

"We can argue about it, or we can agree to go together," he offers.

"Hunter—"

"Oh, this is too precious," Cid mutters, cutting off your objection. She looks back and forth between you, a toothy grin spreading across her face. "Look, lovebirds, I won't stop you if you decide to go together, but you're splitting her cut."

You open your mouth to protest, but Hunter speaks before you can, his voice low. "Deal."

"What?"

"Deal," he repeats, looking at you.

You shake your head, running your hands over your face. Your skin is burning, your mind racing. How could he be so willing to just...leave his team like this? To offer himself up for the sake of your mission, for the sake of your well-being?

It makes no sense.

And yet...

"Fine. We'll do it your way," you finally say.

"Good." Hunter gives you a curt nod.

"Good." Cid chuckles, the sound like a growl in her throat. "Here's the plan..."

“Do you really think I can’t do this alone?” you ask after nearly an hour of silence between you.

You're both en route to Nal Hutta, traveling undercover in an older model cargo ship, and you've been quiet most of the journey. Hunter had expected you to be angry with him, and perhaps a part of you was, but you've also been withdrawn and quiet. You spent the first part of the trip going over the details of the mission, and he can't help but feel like something has shifted between you.

He doesn't regret his decision, not even for a second.

He knows that you can handle yourself, that you've survived in the galaxy on your own since before he was even decanted, and he respects that. But it doesn't stop him from wanting to be there, to protect you if he needs to. It's something he can't explain, an instinct that he feels deep down in his bones.

But you're right. It isn't his place to make this decision for you.

Hunter turns toward you, his gaze roaming over your form. You're seated next to him, your legs crossed, and your gaze is focused out the viewport, watching the blue streaks of hyperspace pass you by. He wants to reach out and place his hand on your knee, to reassure you that his intentions are not meant to be condescending.

Instead, he chooses his words carefully, speaking slowly.

"I didn't say that."

You frown. "You were thinking it."

He sighs, turning back toward the viewport. "I don't think you need anyone," he admits, his voice quiet. "You're a…very capable woman."

You scoff. Yeah, he definitely could've phrased that better.

You lean forward, your hands folded together between your knees. Hunter can't help but admire the way the fabric of your shirt pulls taut against the curves of your body before he forces his eyes away.

"That's not what you said in Cid's office."

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can't deny that his words were a bit harsh, that he allowed his frustration and concern to get the better of him, and he can only hope that he hasn't managed to completely ruin his chances with you.

"I'm sorry about that," he says. "But I can't help how I feel."

"What is that supposed to mean?" you ask, your tone sharp. Hunter turns his head, finding you looking at him, your gaze curious and intense.

"I—" He pauses, licking his lips, searching for the right words. He can't very well tell you the truth. That you've come to mean more to him than he ever intended, that he's grown to care about you and respect you. That he's not sure he can let you out of his sight again, at least not until this is all over.

"It means that I'm concerned," he finally says, settling on a version of the truth that feels easier, less risky.

"You don't need to be," you reply, crossing your arms.

Hunter wants to reassure you, but the truth is, he's worried about you. The thought of you walking into that den of Hutts, alone and defenseless, makes his blood boil.

You've been tight-lipped about your past, and he hasn't pressed you, but he can tell you're hiding something. And the idea that you're going to be forced to relive it, forced to face whatever trauma you've endured, leaves him feeling uneasy.

He has his own demons. He can only imagine what yours might be.

"Look, I know what I'm doing," you say when he doesn't reply, your voice softening.

"I know you do,” he says quietly, his fingers drumming against the armrest.

“Then why did you come?”

He inhales sharply, exhaling through his nose. It isn’t an easy question to answer, especially given the tumultuous state of your relationship. He’s long since given up denying his feelings for you, but you're a wildcard. You’re unpredictable, and he never knows where he stands with you.

There are times when he feels like he could just tell you, but the timing is never right. You’re always on your way out the door, or off to some job or another. You flit in and out of his life like a ghost, and he can never seem to catch you.

And then there are moments when you're close, when he's caught you staring at him, when your fingers have lingered on him just a bit longer than necessary. There are times when he swears he sees something there, something soft and tender in the way you look at him. But then you put the walls back up, and he's left wondering if he’ll ever truly be able to get close to you.

Still, the desire to confess his feelings is always there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity. At this point, it's almost inevitable, but he knows that it will take time, patience.

And so, for now, Hunter settles on an answer that isn't entirely the truth, but that's not exactly a lie, either.

"I couldn't let you go alone."

You blink. "Why not?"

He's quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. 

"It’s not a regular job, cyar’ika. This is dangerous. I know from experience how often missions go sideways, variables change…with the Hutts involved, it complicates things.” He sighs. “And I couldn’t just stand by and watch you go into that den alone."

You purse your lips. "I could handle it."

"I know you could," he says, the corners of his lips quirking up.

"You're insufferable," you mumble, shaking your head.

He chuckles. "Maybe, but I'm telling the truth."

"Mmm."

You look back out the viewport, your expression thoughtful. He watches you for a moment, taking in the subtle curve of your cheek, the delicate arch of your brow. There's a slight flush to your skin, and he knows that you're trying to hide the way his words are affecting you.

It's adorable. You don't blush easily, and seeing the color rise in your cheeks makes him want to lean closer and press his lips to your temple.

The urge is almost overwhelming, and he's forced to look away.

It's strange, the effect you have on him. He's used to keeping his emotions in check, used to being in control, but around you, he feels like a ship spinning out of control. You make him feel things he's never felt before, and it scares him. Hunter is far from the only man who has noticed how beautiful you are, but it's more than just your physical appearance that draws him to you.

There's something about the way you move, the way you carry yourself, the way you speak, the way you fight. It all appeals to him on a primal level. He feels protective of you, and the desire to keep you safe is strong, but the urge to make you his is even stronger.

He's not sure if it's just lust or something more, but he knows that he wants you. Badly.

He just doesn't know how to tell you.

"So, you came along because you were worried about me?"

His attention returns to you, and he finds you looking at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He doesn't return the expression.

"Yes."

Your smile falters, and you sigh. "Hmm."

"What does that mean?"

You turn away from him again, staring out at the stars. He can tell that there's something on your mind, something that's bothering you.

He knows that asking will only push you further away, and so he bites his tongue, resisting the urge to prod.

"Just that you're a bit of an ass, is all," you say, and the words are soft, without any real bite.

He laughs, and you shoot him a small grin.

"I never said I wasn't," he retorts, and you snort.

"Yeah, I suppose not." You smile.

Silence stretches between you, but it's not as awkward as he expects. Instead, it's comfortable, and he allows himself to relax a bit. He missed this in the short time you've been apart, the easy banter, the feeling of being close to you.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped," he says after a moment, keeping his tone light.

You shake your head. "It's okay."

He studies your face. There's no anger there, only acceptance. It's not the reaction he expected, but he's grateful for it.

"Really," he continues. "I didn't mean to make you feel like you couldn't do it."

"It's okay, Hunter." You pat his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze. "I know you're just looking out for me."

He swallows hard, his eyes dropping to where your hand rests on his arm. You must notice his gaze, because your fingers curl slightly, and a shiver runs down his spine.

“I appreciate you tagging along. Even if I don’t think it’s necessary,” you admit, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s nice to have some company for once.”

His heart swells at the confession, and he nods, unable to speak. You're looking at him with such openness and affection that it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs. He's grateful when you finally pull away and return your gaze to the viewport.

"Just don't let it go to your head," you add.

Hunter chuckles, leaning back in his seat. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he admires you.

It's not the first time he's wondered what it would be like to kiss you, to run his fingers through your hair, to feel the warmth of your body pressed against his, but it's the first time he's considered acting on his desires.

It's a tempting thought.

One that he quickly pushes aside, not wanting to make a fool of himself. You're not some random stranger at the cantina or an easy conquest. You're important to him, and he wants to take things slow, to treat you with the respect and reverence that you deserve. No matter how attractive he finds you, no matter how badly he wants you, he can wait.

He hopes.

Hunter feels his body heat up, and he forces himself to look away, clearing his throat. Now is not the time. You turn your head and give him a questioning look, and he realizes he hasn't spoken in several minutes.

"So, um..." he begins, trailing off as he tries to find the words.

"What?"

"I didn't know you could dance," he says.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh?"

He nods. "I don't think I've ever seen you dance before."

You smirk, and the look makes him feel warm. Your brow arches. "Oh, you don't know the half of it."

He doesn't know what he was expecting you to say, but it wasn't that. His eyes widen slightly, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Is that right?"

You nod, crossing your legs. He tries not to stare, but his eyes are drawn to the exposed skin of your thigh, and he swallows hard. You laugh softly, and the sound makes him look back up at you.

"Yeah, it's part of my act."

"What?"

You nod. "Back in the day, I had a routine."

"A routine?" he repeats. Not because he didn't hear you, but because he doesn't know how else to respond. His mind is supplying him with all sorts of images, and he can't seem to focus on anything else.

"Yeah. It's pretty standard. Some dancing, some acting, a little bit of seduction..." You trail off, giving him a coy look.

Hunter blinks, his brain finally catching up with the conversation. He sits up straighter in his chair, clearing his throat.

 "Seduction, huh?"

"What? You don't believe me? That hurts, Hunter. I'm hurt." You pout, placing a hand on your chest, and he bites back a groan.

"No, I, uh... I didn't say that."

"I can be very convincing when I want to be," you murmur, leaning closer.

His heart rate quickens, and he licks his lips. He has no doubt that you could be, especially with the way you're looking at him. He's seen how good you are at manipulating others, and he knows you're probably just messing with him, but his body is responding to your advances nonetheless.

He takes a deep breath, his voice low and husky when he speaks.

"You should show me sometime."

The tension between you is palpable, and he finds himself leaning closer to you, his body moving of its own accord. Your gaze drops to his mouth as the space between you shrinks. His skin tingles, his lips parting, and he's almost certain that you're going to kiss him.

Instead, you sit back, grinning.

"Maybe I will."

He exhales slowly, his heart hammering against his ribcage. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to regain his composure. You're watching him with an amused look on your face, and he can't help but chuckle.

You're infuriating, and he should be frustrated, but he isn't. You're teasing him, and it's working. You're pushing him to his limits, testing his self-control, and he's enjoying it. It's not something he's experienced often, but he's finding that he likes it. He's never met anyone who has made him feel like this, and he wants more.

Hunter leans back in his chair, breaking eye contact, and you giggle. He closes his eyes and rubs his hands over his face, groaning softly. When he looks up, you're watching him with a knowing smirk on your face. He can't help but smile back.

"We should probably focus on the task at hand," you say, your voice light and teasing.

"Yeah. Probably." He shakes his head, the corners of his lips still turned up.

"Right. So...let's go over the plan one more time."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "Right."

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Nal Hutta smells every bit as awful as you remember. The stench is overwhelming — the swampy miasma of rotting vegetation, pollution, and the smell of too many beings packed into a small area. Inside the cantina isn’t much better, but at least you can breathe without choking on the fetid air.

You make your way through the crowded club, the music blaring and the lights dim. You can feel eyes on you, the patrons watching as you pass. You ignore them, keeping your gaze straight ahead. You're dressed to impress, and your clothes leave little to the imagination. You're showing a lot of skin, and while the outfit is functional, you still feel a little vulnerable, but you've always enjoyed being the center of attention.

You've changed a lot in the last few years, but there are some things that will always stay the same.

Your hips sway to the beat as you cross the dance floor. You catch a few admiring glances and appreciative stares, but the one you feel most keenly is Hunter's. He's watching you, keeping his distance, and you can feel his gaze burning into your back as sure as if it was a physical thing.

Normally you find Hunter’s protectiveness endearing, but right now, it's nothing short of infuriating. When you returned to the ship to tell him Nola had given you the job, he insisted on coming along. Not that you would have allowed him to stay behind, but it would have been nice to have a say in the matter.

You had hoped that by allowing him to accompany you, he would have enough faith in you to allow you to work alone.

You were wrong.

He's been glued to your side since the moment you landed, hovering, and watching, and making you nervous. It was like pulling teeth getting him to agree to hang back and let you handle the situation on your own, and even now, his presence is distracting.

You try your best not to look Hunter’s way. You’re supposed to be making eyes at every customer, after all, not just the brooding man posted dutifully in a corner booth, an untouched drink in his hand. And he is brooding. You can practically feel his displeasure coming off him in waves as his eyes follow you around from table to table.

Thankfully, no one else seems to notice. They’re much too busy drinking, gambling, and attempting to grope you as you walk by to detect anything amiss. Your gaze flicks up briefly, and you catch his eye, and you see the way they narrow as a drunk patron reaches out and grabs your wrist.

You freeze, the touch like ice on your skin. The man yanks you forward, pulling you close enough to speak directly into your ear. "How much?"

You stiffen, and your stomach roils.

"Sorry," you mutter, pulling your wrist free. "Not for sale."

You don't wait for his response. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away as quickly as you can without breaking into a run.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you duck around a corner, pressing yourself against the wall as you take a few breaths, trying to calm yourself. It's embarrassing, really, how rattled you are by such a simple gesture. It's only a stupid drunk patron, and yet here you are, hiding in the shadows and struggling to pull yourself together.

You curse under your breath. You’ve done this a hundred times, and you aren’t some wide-eyed child. There's no reason to let the encounter affect you so deeply.

Except, it's the first time you've been back in a place like this since you left.

You shake your head, taking a deep breath and forcing your hands to unclench.

Get a grip, you tell yourself.

A hand settles on your shoulder, and you flinch, your hands flying up in front of you.

“Easy, sweetie," a vibrant pink Twi'Lek murmurs.

You lower your hands, giving the woman a shaky smile. "Sorry, Isa."

"I get it." Isa shrugs, the motion jostling the crystalline beads dripping down her bodysuit. Isa pulls off the look far better than you could ever hope to, and she's got an ease about her that comes from years of experience. It’s no surprise she’s the longest-standing employee here and the most well tipped.

"I don't blame you for being skittish,” she says, retracting her hand. She makes a disgusted noise in her throat. “These people are all sleemos. You want something stronger to drink before the show?"

You shake your head. As much as you'd love one, you're going to need a clear head to make it out of this alive. "Thanks, though," you say.

"Alright, just let me know if you change your mind. You're gonna do great, kid. Just stick to the choreography, and you'll be fine."

You nod, stomach in knots. Isa breezes by and steps on stage as the crowd hollers and cat-calls, the music beginning. You watch as she performs her opening routine, her movements hypnotic and graceful. She's a beautiful woman, and you can see why the patrons are so drawn to her.

"Hey," Hunter's voice is in your ear, his tone soft. You shiver at the sound. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. "Just a little nervous, is all."

He's silent for a moment, and you picture him frowning. You know he's probably not happy that you're doing this, but there's nothing he can do about it. Not now, anyway.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, Hunter."

"You can always abort the mission," he says, and your stomach sinks.

"I'm fine," you say, and you can't keep the edge from your voice. "Don't worry about me."

You make your way behind the stage, palms sweaty and pulse pounding. As you wait for the cue, the music changes and spotlights hit the stage, bathing it in bright light. You watch Isa dance gracefully and feel a twinge of envy. You used to be like her, graceful and seductive.

You take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, steeling yourself. You can do this. All you need to do is play your part and keep your head on straight. The target is the only one that matters.

It doesn't take long for Isa to step off stage, smiling and waving to the crowd before passing you with an encouraging grin.

The announcer calls out your name, and you step onto the stage.

Hunter has been a soldier for years, and he's seen a lot of things that would make most people recoil in disgust or horror. He's been shot at, stabbed, nearly blown up on more than one occasion, and that was all before he and his brothers started working for Cid.

But nothing has ever shaken him the way watching you perform does.

His mouth goes dry, and his jaw drops. He's thankful the cantina is so dim, because he knows he's staring, but he can't help himself.

You're beautiful, your hair swept up, the pale blue light casting a glow over you. And the way your hips move, and your back arches, and your lips curve into a teasing smile, make his blood heat and his heart pound. His eyes follow you as you move, your body twisting and undulating to the music. It's a sensual display, and one that he knows is part of the act, but your movements seem to reach out to him, pulling him in.

Your hips roll, and your fingers slide down your thighs, the sheer fabric of your dress clinging to your body, and the light from the stage highlights the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts. Your movements are graceful, and it's clear that you're no stranger to performing, and yet, there's an edge to them. An intensity. A hint of danger.

The way you're moving, the way you're looking at the crowd, the way you're teasing the audience... It's like watching a predator stalking its prey, and he finds himself transfixed, his body reacting to your every move. 

The crowd is eating out of the palm of your hand, and Hunter is right along with them, transfixed by you.

As if sensing his thoughts, you glance at him, a wicked smile curving your lips. It's a look that makes his pulse race and his imagination run wild. He can almost imagine you whispering in his ear, telling him to meet you after the show. He can see you taking his hand, leading him to your room and letting him explore every inch of your body. He can picture what it would feel like to touch you, to taste you, to bury himself inside you.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer before you turn away, the music growing louder. When you spin around and bend over, giving him a full view of your backside, he knows it's intentional.

You're teasing him, and he can't say that he minds.

Your hips sway and gyrate, your hands traveling over your body. He knows he should look away, should give you the respect and privacy that you deserve, but he can't.

He wants you.

The thought hits him like a freight train, and he feels the blood rush to his groin. His breath catches, and he licks his lips, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. It's a thought he's had before, but it's never been this powerful. It's more than desire, more than a passing fancy. It's a burning need that he can't deny. He's never wanted someone the way he wants you, and the realization leaves him reeling.

He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and focus on the clientele. He can hear the wolf whistles and cat calls, and it makes his skin crawl. But as much as he wants to go up on stage and put an end to this, he knows he can't. Not yet, at least.

Instead, he does what he does best and watches the room, observing. Most of the audience is made up of humans, a few Twi'leks, and a smattering of other species. There are a couple of Hutts, their massive bulk taking up two tables, and several other creatures in the dark corners of the cantina. Hunter has a feeling they're the reason for the high number of bouncers posted at the doors.

This is the sort of place that draws the dregs of the galaxy, he thinks, just as his eyes catch sight of a pale horned head at the bar. His back is to him, but he doesn't need to see his face to know that it's your man.

Hunter tenses, and his fingers twitch.

There you are.

As you dance, you can hear the crowd cheering, and you let the music carry you. You’ve spent many nights in places like this, and you can read a crowd. You know what the patrons want to see, and you can give it to them. You just hope you were attracting the right attention.

When the song ends, you give a little bow and blow a kiss at the crowd, the smile plastered on your face feeling more natural than it did a moment ago. The applause and cheers follow you as you turn to leave the stage, and your legs feel like jelly as you walk, your breath coming hard.

“I have eyes on the target. Zabrak at the bar in the blue vest," Hunter rasps in your ear.

You glance out of the corner of your eye toward the bar. A Zabrak you saw earlier was wearing a blue vest, and sure enough, there he was. He’s in conversation with the droid bartender, which gives you the opportunity to examine him further. You spot his hip pack — likely where he’s storing Cid's crystal — and smile. It’s almost too easy.

The target turns suddenly and catches you looking at him. You mask your surprise with a flirtatious wink, and his expression immediately dissolves into one of interest. He takes his drink from the bartender and lifts it in your direction before taking a sip.

Over the rim of the glass, you can see the darkness of his gaze, and a plan immediately begins to form in your mind. It's not the one you'd intended to follow, but it will work just as well.

“I’m engaging,” you mutter quietly to yourself.

"What? No!" Hunter hisses in your ear.

"Hunter, trust me," you insist. "This is what I do. Let me do my job."

"Your job?" he snaps, his voice rough.

"Yes," you reply sharply, your irritation rising. “I can get the crystal without you having to lift a finger. Just keep your head down and let me do my thing."

"I don’t like this."

"Trust me."

Hunter is silent, and you can practically feel his disapproval.

Fine. Let him be upset. You can handle yourself.

You take a deep breath, your eyes still locked with the Zabrak. He’s decently attractive, with strong features and an impressive physique. Not the worst mark you'd ever had, that's for sure. You can do this.

You give him a coy smile, turning and making your way down the stairs and over to the bar. Your hips sway as you walk, and you put a little extra swing in your step. He keeps his eyes on you as you approach, and the closer you get, the more you can see the clear lust in them. Cid mentioned he had a thing for human women during the briefing, but this was something else.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" he says, his voice a low rumble.

You smile and lean against the bar, your fingers tracing patterns on the worn surface. "I was hoping you’d say that."

"Why's that?"

"Because you seem like the kind of man who could show a girl a good time." Yuck.

"Is that right?" he asks, leaning closer. His hand brushes against your hip, and his breath tickles your neck. "And what makes you say that?"

"Call it a hunch," you say, smiling coyly.

"You have good instincts."

"I have a few," you say, your gaze flicking to the pack at his waist. You lean forward, your hand cupping his cheek. “Is this seat taken?” 

The Zabrak smiles, revealing yellowed teeth and sharp canines as his eyes rake over you. He sets his drink down on the bar and turns toward you to pat his lap with a clawed hand.

Pushing down the shudder threatening to creep up your spine, you slide onto his legs. Your arms wrap around his neck so your fingers can caress the back of his bare skull. The leathery texture of his skin feels wrong, but the claws on your hips are much worse.

His fingers squeeze your flesh, and you fight the urge to flinch. You hate this. Hate being this close to someone, hate the way their hands roam your body. It's too familiar, too dangerous. You can feel your heart beating wildly in your chest, and your skin crawls. But this is the only way to get what you need.

"I'm Vesh," he tells you, his voice deep and gravelly.

You respond with your name, your voice a whisper.

Vesh repeats it, and his fingers flex on your skin. "It's a pleasure."

"Mmm," you murmur, your hand trailing down his chest.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” he says as you swing your legs around to dangle off the side of his own.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask, batting your eyelashes. At his nod, you lean in closer, nose nearly brushing his ear. “It’s my first day.”

He draws back and grasps your chin with a clawed thumb and forefinger. You resist the urge to jerk your head away as he brings your face close to his.

"Is that right?" he asks, his breath hot on your skin.

"Mmhmm," you nod, your fingers curling into his vest. “You’ll tell me if I’m doing a bad job, won’t you?”

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he growls, his hand sliding up your thigh, "I'll make sure you're nice and thoroughly trained."

The innuendo is glaringly obvious, and the implication is clear. You can't help but wonder if he thinks he's being charming. He's not.

You force yourself not to recoil from his touch. Instead, you lean in, pressing your body against his. "I hope so."

You hum, running your hands over his chest, the muscles beneath your palms tense and firm. Your gaze drops to his hip pack. It would be so easy to snatch the crystal and run, but the last thing you need is to alert him or the guards. Instead, you allow him to tilt your head, your body pliant in his grasp.

As he leans down to kiss your neck, you can hear a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl over the comlink.

“I’m coming over," Hunter rasps.

“Don’t!” you blurt out. Vesh makes to withdraw, and you quickly hold onto his neck to keep him in place. “Um, don’t stop. You’re so good at that.”

He needs little encouragement from there. With dry lips, he mouths at your neck and chest, hands moving to caress your waist and thighs. You give sighs in all the right places, leaning into his touch, all the while feeling a pair of eyes burning into you from across the room.

It's an easy plan. One you've pulled off more times than you can count. Seduce the target, steal the goods, and run.

What you didn't anticipate was your reaction to Hunter's presence. The way his gaze is practically boring into you, his displeasure rolling off him in waves. Or the possessive noise that escapes him when Vesh touches you. It's thrilling and terrifying all at once.

It's been a long time since someone has felt so protective of you, and while it's unnecessary, there's a part of you that likes it. It's a heady feeling, knowing that someone cares enough about you to get angry on your behalf.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel Vesh's hand slip under your dress. You tense, your thighs clenching around his leg. He growls in your ear, low and throaty, and his hips buck up, grinding against you. His claws rake across your skin, leaving burning trails behind.

It takes every ounce of your willpower not to pull away and run. Instead, you force yourself to stay put and focus on the task at hand.

Vesh's free hand reaches up to cup your breast, and your breath hitches.

"So eager," he murmurs, his voice thick and heavy with lust.

"I can't wait," you purr, your eyes sliding over his shoulder to meet Hunter's. His gaze is molten, and his jaw is set, a muscle ticking in his cheek. You force yourself to turn back to Vesh, a smile on your lips. "Why don't we take this somewhere private?"

"I like the way you think." He grins and nearly shoves you off his lap as he moves to stand.

Vesh leads you forward with a hand on your lower back towards the staircase leading to the private rooms. You glance over your shoulder in the hopes of meeting Hunter's eyes, but he's nowhere to be found. Kriff. You wanted to do this alone, and now here you are. Alone.

Once you reach the top of the stairs, the target takes you by the hand and leads you down the hallway. It's empty, and you can feel your stomach sinking with every step you take. You try your best not to drag your feet, but the hot breath on your neck and the hand pressed against you is anything but encouraging.

When you arrive at a door at the end of the hall, he crowds you against it, eagerly pressing his hardness to your lower back as he wraps an arm around your stomach. He types in the code, and as soon as the door slides open, he releases you to shove you inside.

The room is a small square with a bed and a single chair. The only other door leads to a refresher, but much more worth noting is the small window embedded deep in the wall behind the bed. It'll require climbing up to reach, but it's large enough for you to slip out and drop to the roof below. Easy.

The door slides shut, casting the room in shadow.

Time to put your skills to use.

"Don't move," Vesh orders. There’s a strange, misplaced sound, like metal clicking, and it takes you a moment too soon to realize.

You turn slowly, and the sight that greets you makes your blood run cold. The barrel of the Vesh’s hand cannon stares you down, his glowering face just behind it. 

“I must say, you put on quite the display back there,” he says with a tilt of his head.

You swallow hard, your eyes flicking from the blaster to his face.

"But you just had to go and ruin things, didn't you?" he snarls, taking a step toward you. “You almost had me convinced. But I know what you’re really after.”

You freeze, your eyes widening. You try to keep your expression neutral, but you can feel the panic rising in your chest. Your eyes flick to the door behind him, hoping beyond hope that it hadn’t locked automatically.

"You think I haven’t dealt with thieves before? You're not the first,” he sneers. “Though I will admit, you are the most attractive."

"Well, you got me." You hold your hands up, palms facing outward. "I'm sorry. Now, just let me go, and we can forget this ever happened."

Vesh gives a mirthless laugh. "Oh, I don't think so." He steps closer, his grip on the blaster tightening. "I think you're going to stay right here and do exactly what I tell you."

“Wait—let’s talk. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”

“How about this: you strip, and I’ll think about not blowing your pretty little head off. How does that sound?"

Your eyes dart from the gun to the door, then back again. Your mind is racing, and you know you need to think fast. If you can get close enough to him, catch him by surprise, you might be able to make it out of here in one piece with your prize.

You bite your lip, considering. If you play your cards right, this could work in your favor.

"Okay, okay. I'll do whatever you want," you say, your voice trembling.

"That's my girl," he growls.

Slowly, you reach up to the straps of your dress, letting them slide down your shoulders. You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You hate the way he looks at you, and the thought that this is for him makes your stomach turn, but you need to buy yourself enough time.

Vesh’s breathing becomes heavy, and he shifts his weight, his grip on the blaster slackening ever so slightly.

"More," he growls, his eyes darting to the exposed swell of your breasts.

You take a step forward, then another, until the barrel of the blaster is pressed against your collarbone. The metal is cold, and the promise of death lingers in the air. But it's enough. It gives you just enough room to maneuver.

You prime yourself to spring forward, your fingers closing around the handle of your knife, but you’re thrown off when the door slides open, bathing the room in the light of the hall.

A gloved hand appears, pushing the blaster aside, and Vesh lets out a surprised grunt. You stumble backwards, your back hitting the wall as you watch Hunter take down the Zabrak. You barely blink, and then the target is flat on his back, his weapon kicked aside and Hunter's foot pressing his windpipe into the floor.

He leans down, and your breath catches.

"Stay down," he growls.

Vesh sputters and coughs, his hands clutching at Hunter's boot. He tries to speak, but Hunter's foot only presses harder.

"What the hell are you doing?" you gasp, your heart hammering in your chest.

"I told you I was coming," he replies, his eyes never leaving the man underneath his boot.

"I had it under control," you insist.

"Like hell you did!"

"What is it with men not thinking I can handle myself?" you demand, throwing your hands up.

"I can't leave you alone for a minute without you nearly getting yourself killed," Hunter snarls, the anger rolling off him in waves. Vesh pushes against his boot, but Hunter's knee presses into his chest, effectively pinning him.

"Get off me!" Vesh spits.

Hunter leans in, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You’re lucky I don’t kill you."

"What the hell are you even doing here, Hunter?"

"Making sure you don't do something stupid," he shoots back.

"I had everything under control."

"Under control? It looks to me like he was about to have his way with you!"

"That was the plan," you retort.

"Plan?" Hunter's gaze snaps to yours, and his eyes are dark. He looks furious. "You mean you were going to let him—"

"He was about to give me what I want," you cut him off, your temper flaring.

Hunter's expression hardens, and he turns back to the Zabrak, pressing his weight onto the man's throat. Vesh coughs and struggles against the pressure, but Hunter's relentless.

"Hunter, stop," you shout, panic rising in your chest. This is going downhill fast, and if you don't do something, he is going to ruin everything.

"No," Hunter says, his voice tight. "He doesn't get to hurt you."

You move forward, grabbing his shoulder and tugging. He doesn't budge. "Hunter, listen to me."

He opens his mouth to reply, but he hesitates, tilting his head. A second later, you hear heavy footsteps pound up the stairs and down the hall.

"We need to go," he snaps.

"No, wait, we’re so close—"

"Now!" Hunter pulls Vesh up and pushes him against the wall before grabbing your arm and dragging you to the window. He throws the latch, and it swings open.

"Go," he orders, gesturing for you to climb through.

"What about you?"

"I'm right behind you. Go!"

You don't need to be told twice. You scramble up the wall and slide through the window, dropping down onto the roof below. The sound of shouting and running feet comes from behind you, and you spin around to see Hunter climbing out the window.

"Come on," he says, grabbing your arm again and pulling you across the roof.

You run to the edge, and you hesitate. "It's too far," you say, looking down at the narrow street below. 

Hunter doesn't seem to hear you. He blows past you, scaling down the wall with ease. You watch him go, jaw slack. Is he really just going to leave you behind?

He reaches the bottom of the alley and turns back, his face illuminated by the glow of the street lamps. "Jump! I’ll catch you.”

“You can’t be serious!" You yell.

"Do you want to get caught or not?" he yells back, his arms spread wide.

You glance back, and your heart leaps into your throat. Vesh’s angry face appears in the window, followed by his hand cannon.

There's no time. You have to go.

Taking a deep breath, you jump.

For a terrifying moment, you feel weightless, suspended in midair. Then, strong arms wrap around you, catching you and pulling you close. You fall back against the wall together, and you bury your face in his neck, your heart pounding.

"See, I told you I'd catch you," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

"You're crazy," you mumble.

"And you're reckless."

You lean back and glare at him, and his grip on you tightens. You can't believe he dragged you away from the job like that. He ruined everything.

"What now?"

"Now we get the hell out of here and go home," he says, setting you down on your feet. You immediately pull out of his grasp, ignoring the way his hand lingers on your arm.

"What?" you hiss. "What about the job?"

"Forget the job." His hand moves to grab yours. "We're leaving."

You let out a sigh and let him pull you along. As you run through the streets, your mind races. The night didn’t go the way you planned, but somehow, you made it out. And if you’re honest with yourself, a part of you is relieved. Relieved that you didn’t have to go through with your plan. Relieved that Hunter was there to protect you. But your relief is tinged with frustration. Frustration at yourself for letting your guard down. Frustration at Hunter for being right. 

And, more than anything, frustration at the fact that you’re going home empty-handed. Again.

As you run, the sounds of the city fade away behind you, and you can't help but feel like this is only the beginning. Like this is just the start of your troubles. Because the truth is, Hunter’s right. You are reckless. And when it comes to your own safety, you’ll do whatever it takes to get what you want. Even if it means risking your life.

As soon as the two of you are back on the ship, the doors seal, the engine rumbles to life, and the atmosphere around you turns yellow and then black. You let out a breath and lean back in the copilot’s seat, your stomach roiling.

Hunter doesn't look at you.

He didn’t say anything as you entered the cockpit behind him, his jaw tense and his expression blank. When you sat down, he put the ship on autopilot, and then simply stared out the window, his eyes fixed on the stars.

You can't stand it. The tension in the air between you, the unspoken words. It’s suffocating. You've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and you hate it.

"Hunter..." you start, not even sure where you're going.

"Don't."

The word is harsh, sharp, and it cuts through you like a knife. Your mouth clamps shut, and you sit back in your seat, your eyes wide.

Hunter's gaze is still fixed on the stars, his expression inscrutable. You can't read him, can't tell what he's thinking. He's closed himself off to you, and it hurts more than you want to admit.

"Hunter, please."

He shakes his head, his fingers tightening on the controls. You can hear them creak under his grip. "You should shower.”

"What?"

"You should shower. Clean yourself up," he repeats, his voice tight.

"No," you snap, your temper flaring. You don't care if he's upset. He doesn't get to treat you like this.

His shoulders tense, and his jaw clenches.

“You smell like him,” he elaborates.

Your blood runs cold. You didn't notice. The adrenaline must have been covering up the scent, but now that he mentions it, you can't help but feel the ghostly touches. Hands and claws and lips on your skin, the scent of booze and cigarra smoke.

You suddenly feel guilty, and it’s not a feeling you're used to. Your hands clench into fists in your lap, and you try not to think about the way his lips felt on your neck, the way his hands felt on your body.

Your mouth opens and closes, the words stuck in your throat.

 “We’ll talk when you’re done,” Hunter says, his eyes still not meeting yours.

You sit there for a moment, your hands clenched tightly in your lap, and you can feel the heat building behind your eyes. You know he's right, but it doesn't make it any easier. 

“Fine.” You swallow thickly and stand up, your legs trembling slightly. The crystals dangling from your dress ping together with the movement, and you swear you see him flinch at the sound. You don't look back as you head out into the common room.

You grab some clean clothes and your toiletries and head into the refresher. When the door closes, you sigh and lean against it. You can still feel his hands on you, and you want to scrub your skin raw until there's nothing left. You shake your head and push the feeling away. It's not productive. Instead, you strip and step into the shower, allowing the water to wash away the night.

It was far from the first time this has happened to you, but it never gets easier, not entirely. You’re just numb to it. Just another in a long line of unsavory decisions you've had to make in an effort to survive in the galaxy. To feed yourself and keep a roof over your head. To get what you need. But this... this feels different, somehow.

Hunter shouldn’t have seen you that way. He shouldn’t have seen you so desperate, so willing to do whatever it took to get what you wanted. No one should see you that way. But especially not him.

You scrub your skin until it’s red and raw, but it doesn't seem to matter. The shame and frustration inside you continues to build, your fists clenching and unclenching as you replay the scene over and over in your mind.

The way Hunter looked at you, the anger and disgust in his eyes.

It's the same way everyone else looks at you.

You've always been seen as less than. Less than worthy. Less than capable. Less than important. It's not something that's ever bothered you before, but now, in front of him, it does.

It stings.

It shouldn't, but it does.

And you hate it.

You take a deep breath and force yourself to relax, your shoulders slumping. The water cascades down your body, washing away the grime and dirt, the evidence of the night's activities.

It's not a big deal, you tell yourself. Hunter was just trying to help. And maybe you needed the help.

As much as you hate to admit it, he's right. You were reckless. You're used to being on your own. To making your own decisions and dealing with the consequences. Working with a partner — a team — is new. Not bad, necessarily, but definitely new. Hunter made it clear from the start that you're in this together, but clearly he wasn’t ready to see you like this.

It isn't the first time you've used your body to get what you want, and it won't be the last. It's a useful tool, one you've honed to a razor-sharp edge. You can read a room and a target in an instant, and you're always prepared to think on your feet.

Hunter’s seen you at your best — smart, witty, skilled. But now he's seen you at your worst. Vulnerable. Desperate. Pathetic.

And he doesn't like it.

You understand why. You don't like it either.

As soon as you’re clean and dried, you get dressed. You don’t linger in the refresher, don’t even bother to look in the mirror. You just grab your things and leave. You have no desire to spend more time than necessary hiding away.

When you return to the cockpit, Hunter is still there, his eyes fixed on the streaks of light outside. He doesn't turn to look at you, doesn't acknowledge your presence, and the silence between you grows thicker and more oppressive.

"You want to talk," you say at last, breaking the tension. "So let's talk."

"Fine." Hunter stands and pushes past you, stalking through the cockpit toward the common room. You follow, your heart hammering in your chest. You're not sure what to expect, but whatever it is, you know it's not good.

As soon as the two of you are in the common room, Hunter rounds on you, his expression dark.

"You jeopardized the mission."

Whatever you were expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.

"Excuse me?" Your anger flares, and you step closer to him, your chin jutting out. "Need I remind you whose mission this is?"

"And need I remind you that we're a team? We're supposed to work together."

You scoff, shaking your head. You can't believe him. After all that, this is what he's upset about?

"We are working together," you snap.

"Is that what you call it?” Hunter growls. "Because to me, it looked like you doing everything you can to prove you don't need my help."

"I don't!”

"Clearly." His words are heavy with sarcasm, and it makes your skin crawl.

You hate him, hate the way he makes you feel, hate the way he can read you so easily. He's always been able to see through you, and it makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. You can't stand it.

"Look, I don't need you telling me how to do my job."

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't so reckless," he shoots back.

"Reckless?" Your voice rises, your temper getting the better of you. "That's rich coming from you. I'm not the one who charged in there guns blazing and nearly got us both killed."

"But I'm not the one who was going to sell myself to some lowlife for a chunk of rock!”

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" he snarls. He steps closer, looming over you, his eyes dark with anger. You refuse to be intimidated, but your stomach does an unpleasant flip.

"Yes, really," you snap, holding his gaze. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"You went off script. We agreed we’d approach the target together and you just went right up to him!” He’s shouting now, and his voice echoes in the small room. "You didn't tell me the plan. You didn't wait for my signal. You just acted without thinking. Just like always."

"I had it handled," you yell back. You jab at his chest plate with a finger, and unsurprisingly, he doesn't budge an inch. If anything, he leans closer.

"Handled? You call getting caught 'handled'?"

"If you hadn't barged in, I would have had him eating out of the palm of my hand," you insist.

"You can't be serious. That man was seconds away from having his way with you!” he shouts. “He was going to use you, and when he was done, he was going to kill you. And I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it."

You scoff and roll your eyes. This is ridiculous.

"So that's what this is about? You're mad because I didn't let you play the hero?"

"Haar'chak, I'm mad because I'm the only one around here who seems to care if you live or die!"

You reel back as if struck. You're not sure if it's the sudden realization of what he said or the fact that he's shouting in your face, but whatever the case, it feels like a punch to the gut.

You open your mouth to retort, but no words come out. Hunter's eyes are dark, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a tight line. He's breathing hard, his nostrils flaring. You've never seen him like this, so angry and out of control.

"You don't think. That's your problem. You act on impulse and don't think things through. It’s like you don’t care at all about your own safety."

"So what?" you finally manage.

"So what?" Hunter echoes, his voice incredulous. He steps back, his arms gesturing wildly. "So, what if you hadn't been able to seduce the target? What if he had seen through your little game and shot you? What if I hadn't been there to stop him?"

"Well, thank the Maker that you were, isn't that right?"

"This isn't funny!"

"I'm not laughing," you retort, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You're so--" He breaks off, and takes a deep breath. His hand covers his face, and he shakes his head. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and strained. "You act like it doesn't matter, like your life doesn't matter. But it does."

His words take the wind out of your sails. You've never heard him sound so... defeated. Like he's tired of fighting. Like he's given up. It's unnerving.

You're scrambling for something, anything to keep your anger burning. It's the only thing holding you together right now. If it fades, if you let yourself feel the shame and guilt and humiliation, you'll fall apart. And you can't let that happen.

"You don't understand," you mutter, turning away from him.

"You're right, I don't.” He grabs your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His eyes search yours, his brow furrowed. "I don't understand why you're so willing to throw yourself into danger like that. You deserve better than that."

"Better than what?"

"Better than this." He gestures around the ship. “Better than having to use your body as a weapon. Better than letting Cid take advantage of you."

"That's my choice," you snap, pushing his hand away, and it falls back to his side. "This is my life, Hunter. This is what I've had to do to survive. It's not pretty, but it's the only way I've found that works."

"There's a better way," he says, his voice firm.

"Not for me. Not when all I have is this." You gesture to yourself, to your body, and he flinches, his jaw clenching. "I have nothing. I'm nobody."

"You're not nothing," he insists, stepping closer to you. "And you're not just some weapon to be used and thrown away. You're important."

"I'm not."

"You are," he says, his voice low and rough.

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Because I—" He pauses, and his gaze softens, his eyes searching yours. "I care about you. I care about what happens to you."

The words echo in the small space between you, hanging in the air like a bomb ready to go off. Your heart races in your chest, and you take a step back.

"Hunter, I—"

"No, don't." He closes the gap between you, his hands reaching out for yours. "Just, please, just listen. I know I'm probably the last person who should be telling you this, but you need to hear it. You need to know that you're more than just a body to use. You're so much more. You're strong, and capable, and kriff, you're brave. Too brave. But that's not a bad thing. It's just part of who you are. And I..."

His hands are warm on yours, his voice a low rumble. Your stomach twists into knots, and your head spins. Hunter cares about you. He's said the words aloud, and you don't know how to process them.

No one has ever said that to you before. Not like this.

"I know what it's like to be used. To be seen as nothing more than a means to an end. I know what it's like to do things you're not proud of." He pauses, his eyes searching your face. "And I don't want that for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and your heart aches. You can't believe what you're hearing.

“I’m sorry for yelling." Hunter says, his voice strained.

"It's fine," you mumble.

"It's not. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. But seeing you like that, with him..." His jaw clenches, and his fingers flex around yours. "I hate it. I hate seeing you like this, using yourself like this. You deserve better, and I'm not just saying that. It's true."

You're not sure how to respond. A part of you is still angry, still hurt, still defensive. But a larger part of you is moved by his words, by the concern in his voice. He means what he's saying, and that's enough to make the knot in your stomach loosen ever so slightly.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologize."

"No, I should. You're right. I should have talked to you before I did anything. I should have trusted you."

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, his hands sliding up your arms. "I do. I trust you with my life. But I care about you too much to watch you get hurt."

"Hunter, I—"

"You don't have to say anything. I know I've probably crossed a line, and I'm sorry. I just had to say it."

"Thank you," you murmur.

You feel him shift, and when you open your eyes, he's close. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against him. He rests his chin on top of your head, his grip tight. It feels good, being held like this, and a sense of peace washes over you. You're not used to feeling safe, but with Hunter, you do. It’s a bit terrifying that he’s come to mean this much to you.

His thumb strokes along your spine, and you lean further into his touch. It's intimate, more than you're used to, but it's nice. More than nice. You've never had anyone hold you like this, care about you like this, and it makes you feel warm all over.

"Say it again," you whisper.

"I'm sorry," Hunter repeats, his tone questioning. You pull back and meet his eyes, and the worry, the hope in his expression is enough to take your breath away.

"No, the other thing," you say.

Realization dawns on him, and a small smile plays across his lips. "I care about you."

This time, when the words are spoken, they don't hurt. They don't sting or burn. They settle over you like a warm blanket, like a comforting embrace.

You smile, and a small laugh escapes you. It's a silly, stupid sound, but you don't care.

"You care about me," you repeat, as if saying the words will make them more real.

"I do," Hunter says.

His hands cup your cheeks, and he tilts your head up, his gaze searching yours as his thumb brushes over your lower lip.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, and then he's kissing you, his lips warm and gentle on yours. You close your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest as you melt against him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and a soft moan escapes your lips.

Kissing Hunter is unlike anything you've ever experienced before. It's soft and sweet, but there's a hint of hunger, of desperation, like he's been holding himself back. You can't help but smile, and his lips curl into a smirk against yours.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your skin. You feel giddy, drunk on the kiss, and you can't keep the smile from your lips.

"Hunter..." you begin, but you're not sure what else to say.

"I meant it," he says, his voice a low rumble.

Your smile widens, and your hand reaches up to trace along his jaw. His stubble is rough under your fingers, and you can't help but admire the sharp lines of his face.

"I care about you, too,” you whisper.

He smiles, and his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your heart is still racing, and you feel like you're floating, like your body is made of stardust and light.

Hunter's gaze is tender, full of affection, and it's almost too much to bear. He makes you feel like you're the only person in the galaxy, and it's a feeling you've never experienced before. It's overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

"I'm still mad at you," he whispers.

"I know," you say, smiling. "But I'm mad at you, too."

"Fair enough."

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours once more. The kiss is brief, but it sends shivers down your spine, and you can't help but chase after him as he pulls away.

He lets out a muffled noise of surprise as you crash your lips onto his. You kiss him, hard, pouring everything you feel into the moment. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as he kisses you back. His mouth is hot and insistent, and you feel the heat of desire pool in your belly.

You've kissed plenty of people in your life, but never like this. Never with such abandon, such need. Never with such raw passion. You can't get enough of him. You press your body against his, desperate to be closer, and he responds in kind. 

It's like a dam has burst, the two of you crashing together in a tangle of lips and teeth and tongues. Hunter guides you back until you’re pushed against the wall, his body caging yours. His hands are everywhere, on your waist, your hips, your breasts. Your fingers dig into his back as your leg lifts to hook around his waist. He takes the hint and grabs it, then the other, lifting you up.

You wrap your legs around his waist, and his hands slide under your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin. He pins you against the wall with his body, and you can't help but moan at the contact. You're already aching for him, and the feeling of his codpiece pressing against your core isn't helping.

When his lips finally leave yours, you're gasping for air, your body trembling with need. Hunter's eyes are dark and wild, his lips swollen from the kisses. You've never seen him look so undone, and the thought that you did this, that you're the one responsible for the desire burning in his gaze, makes you dizzy with lust. 

He looks at you, his gaze raking over your body, and he swallows hard. His voice is low and husky when he speaks.

"I can't believe I almost lost you," he says, his breath warm against your skin. "If anything happened to you..."

"It didn’t," you whisper. You reach out and gently trace the outline of his tattoo. "I'm here. I'm safe."

"You scared the hell out of me.” His eyes meet yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Don't ever do that again."

You bite your lip, and a sly smile spreads across your face.

"What?" Hunter asks, his eyebrow quirking.

"It's just..." You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "You're kind of a hypocrite."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm not the only one who does reckless, stupid things." You tilt your head and smile at him.

His brow furrows, and then realization dawns on him. He chuckles, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips.

"You may have a point," he admits, and you laugh.

You lean in, your nose brushing against his. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch, his lips brushing against yours. It's gentle and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his body is pressed against yours, and you can't help but sigh softly.

"What a pair we make, " you murmur.

"That we do," he agrees. His eyes open, and he pulls back slightly. His gaze is intense, his pupils blown wide. His hands are still on your thighs, and you can feel his thumbs moving in small circles on your skin. It's a tiny gesture, but it makes your heart race, and a shiver runs through your body.

The tension between the two of you is almost palpable, and you can't stop staring at his lips, at the way they're slightly parted, like he's waiting for permission.

You don't hesitate.

You kiss him, hard. His lips are warm and soft against yours, and you feel him smile. You can't help but smile too, a laugh bubbling up in your throat.

The kiss grows deeper, and Hunter's tongue slips past your lips. His hands move from your thighs to your waist, pulling you closer. You're completely pinned against the wall, his body flush with yours, and your hips cant against his, desperate for some kind of friction.

He lets out a low groan, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You gasp, and his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. He trails his lips down your jaw, and his teeth graze over your neck, his tongue lapping at the sensitive skin.

"Hunter," you gasp, your head falling back against the wall. He lets out a groan and grinds his hips against yours, his codpiece rubbing against your clit as his hands slip under your shirt.

The feeling is electric, and you can't help but buck against him, desperate for more. He responds in kind, his body rocking against yours, his mouth hot on your skin. Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, pulling him closer, and his lips trail up to your ear, his breath hot and heavy.

"Do you want me to stop?" he murmurs.

"Stars, no."

Hunter laughs, and his lips find yours once more. You can't help but moan, the kiss sending sparks through your body. His hands slide up your sides, his thumbs brushing over the curve of your breasts. You arch into his touch, and his fingers deftly unhook your bra.

He pulls away just enough to lift your shirt, and you let your bra fall off your shoulders, your hands reaching up to help him take it off. You're left completely bare from the waist up, and his gaze is hungry, his eyes roving over your exposed skin.

He doesn't give you a chance to feel self-conscious. His hands are on your breasts, kneading and squeezing, his thumbs rolling over your nipples. The sensation is incredible, and you gasp, your head falling back against the wall. His head ducks down, his tongue trailing over your skin. When his mouth closes around one of your nipples, you nearly lose it, a moan tearing from your throat.

Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against him, the pleasure building inside you. His teeth graze over your nipple, and his hands slide down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.

"Please," you whimper, the word slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

He lets out a low, satisfied hum and kisses his way across your chest, his mouth hot on your skin. One hand cups the back of his neck, pulling him closer, while the other grabs his wrist, urging him lower.

Hunter doesn't disappoint. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants and underwear, and then he's stroking you, his fingers sliding easily through your slick folds. You let out a choked moan, your hips bucking against his hand, and he smiles against your skin, his teeth grazing over your nipple.

“Never thought I'd hear you beg," he murmurs.

Your cheeks flush, but before you can respond, his thumb presses against your clit, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. His touch is electric, and your hips rock against his hand, desperate for more.

Hunter chuckles, his breath hot against your skin, and then he’s pulling away, his fingers slipping out of you.

You nearly whine, the loss of contact making you ache, but then he's dropping to his knees in front of you, and you can't think of anything else. His hands find the waistband of your pants and underwear, and he slowly, tantalizingly, drags them down your legs. You step out of them, and he tosses them aside, his gaze raking over your naked form.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands sliding up the backs of your legs.

He doesn't give you a chance to respond. He hikes a leg over his shoulder and presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and a low, needy sound escapes your throat.

"Hunter..."

He doesn't need any more encouragement. He moves in, his tongue licking a hot, wet stripe over your folds. Your hips jerk, and he lets out an obscene groan, his hands sliding up to grip your ass. He pulls you closer, his tongue circling your clit before flicking over it.

"So good," he rasps against you, and the sound goes straight to your core.

You can't help but moan, the pleasure building inside you, his mouth hot and wet and insistent. Your hips roll against his face, and his fingers dig into your skin, his breath coming in ragged pants.

He devours you, his tongue delving inside you before returning to your clit. He alternates between teasing licks and hungry sucks, his pace relentless, his desire to make you come clear in his every movement.

The way his mouth moves over you, the way his tongue works you over, it's unlike anything you've ever experienced before. He's focused, his eyes closed, his lips and tongue working tirelessly. He's clearly enjoying himself, and it shows.

You've never had anyone eat you out with such enthusiasm. With such need.

His fingers spread you open, and his tongue plunges deeper, his nose rubbing against your clit. It's almost too much, and you can't hold back the moans spilling from your lips. His mouth is perfect, and the pressure is building, the pleasure mounting. You're so close, so kriffing close.

Then, his eyes open, his gaze locking onto yours.

And he doesn't look away.

He holds your gaze as his mouth works you over, as his tongue swirls and flicks and teases. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a hunger in them that takes your breath away. Hunter's always been intense, but this is different. This is a whole new level, and it's enough to send you hurtling over the edge.

You come, hard. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you let out a cry, your orgasm ripping through you as you double over, your fingers gripping his hair for dear life. He doesn't stop, his tongue licking up every last drop of your release. Your hips buck against his face, and he groans, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body.

It's a long moment before you come down, and even then, you're trembling, your body flushed and spent. You can barely stand, your legs weak, but Hunter's arms are there, supporting you. He presses a kiss to your thigh, and you let out a shaky breath.

When you finally manage to open your eyes, Hunter's still kneeling in front of you, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Enjoy yourself?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

"Maker, yes," you say, laughing. You shake your head and run a hand through your hair, your mind reeling. “You’ve been holding out on me, Sergeant."

Hunter stands and takes your face in his hands, his gaze searching yours. There's a heat in his eyes, a desire that makes your breath catch in your throat. His thumb brushes over your lips, and he leans in, his mouth ghosting over yours.

“Want more?” he whispers.

"Please."

The word is barely out of your mouth before his lips are on yours, his kiss hot and hungry. He pushes you back, and you let him guide you, his mouth never leaving yours. He steers you until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bunk, and you stumble backwards, landing on the bed with a small yelp.

Hunter doesn't waste any time. His hands move to the latches of his chest plate, and he quickly removes it, letting it clatter to the floor. The sound of it hitting the ground echoes through the ship, and a jolt of anticipation runs through you.

You're really doing this.

You're really going to have sex with Hunter.

As he steps out of his boots, the realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and your stomach does a little flip.

You've been dancing around this, whatever this is, for weeks. Months, even. You've wanted him, wanted this, and now, you're finally going to have it.

It's exhilarating and terrifying, and you can't wait.

Your hands reach out for him, and you undo the belt at his waist. It falls to the floor, and he lets out a soft chuckle, his hands finding yours. He lifts them up, and places a gentle kiss on each of your knuckles, his gaze meeting yours.

The gesture is sweet, tender, and it takes your breath away. Your heart skips a beat, and you can't help but smile, a fluttering feeling filling your chest.

This man, this soldier, who's seen and done so much, and still manages to be kind and caring.

Who makes you feel safe.

Who makes you feel cared for.

You can't believe your luck.

"Hunter," you murmur, unable to look away from him.

He pauses, his eyes searching yours.

"What is it?"

"I..." You trail off, not sure how to express what you're feeling. It's all too much, and the words don't seem enough.

He lets go of your hands and cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

"It's okay," he says. “We don’t have to do anything you're not ready for."

You laugh, a small, breathless sound. "No, that's not it. I want this. I want you."

His eyes widen, and he swallows hard. For a moment, he doesn't move, doesn't speak. Then, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Force, the things you do to me," he murmurs, his thumb running along your bottom lip.

You can't help but smile.

Then, his lips are on yours, and the rest of the world fades away.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's raw and desperate, a primal need driving the two of you. His hands are everywhere, and yours are, too. You can't get enough of him.

Your hands tug at the fastenings of his blacks, and he pulls away just long enough to shed them along with his briefs, leaving him naked before you.

Hunter’s skin is hot beneath your fingertips, his muscles taut and defined. You can't help but admire him, his broad shoulders and trim waist, the dark tattoos that cover one side of his body, the scars that mar his skin. He's a sight to behold, and a small sigh escapes your lips.

"See something you like?" he asks, a playful tone in his voice.

Your eyes dip lower, following the trail of hair down his stomach, and a smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. His cock is already hard and straining, the tip glistening with precum. You bite your lip, and when you glance back up, you catch him watching you.

A blush rises to his cheeks, and he gives you a sheepish grin.

"Like I said, the things you do to me," he repeats.

You laugh, and reach up, pulling him in for another kiss. You let yourself fall back, and he follows, his body covering yours.

His skin is soft and warm, his muscles firm under your touch. You let your hands roam, sliding over his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you can reach as he pins you underneath him.

He shudders under your touch, his hips rolling against yours, and a groan escapes his lips. The feeling of his cock sliding against your clit, even with him between your legs, is enough to send a shiver through your body. You can't help but arch up into him, and he lets out a soft grunt, his breath hot on your neck.

“Kriff, you're killing me," he murmurs.

You laugh, and nip at his neck. He gasps, his hips jerking against yours, and you can't help but revel in the feeling.

Hunter is usually so in control, so disciplined, but you can see that control slipping, his restraint crumbling. It's a powerful feeling, knowing that you're the one who's making him lose his mind, and a sense of pride washes over you.

You slide a hand between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and he lets out a choked moan, his body tensing above you. Your thumb teases the sensitive tip, spreading the precum around, and he drops his head to your shoulder, his breathing ragged as his eyes squeeze shut.

"Fuck, that feels good," he groans.

"Yeah?" you ask, giving him a squeeze.

"Yes," he breathes, his hips rocking into your touch.

"I bet you'd feel better inside me," you murmur.

"Fuck, I bet you're right."

His mouth finds yours, and he kisses you, deep and hard, his tongue exploring yours. You stroke his cock, slowly, and he lets out a muffled moan, his hips thrusting against you.

His hands slide down your body, grabbing your thighs and pushing them apart. The movement is rough and sudden, and a small gasp escapes your lips as he holds you open. Your hand falls away from his cock, and he takes the opportunity to settle between your legs, his body pinning you against the bed.

He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing heavy, his eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the tension between you is almost too much, and your heart hammers in your chest.

He reaches down, taking himself in his hand, and rubs the head of his cock against your clit. The sensation is incredible, and a choked moan falls from your lips.

He gives a small, teasing thrust, the tip just barely entering you, and a shudder runs through your body. You want him so badly, and he's barely giving you anything.

You let out a frustrated huff, and Hunter smirks.

"Ask nicely," he murmurs.

You swallow, the heat building between you, and your mind is reeling. You’re too far gone to worry about your pride, and if that's what he wants, then that's what you'll give him.

"Please, Hunter," you breathe, and he lets out a low groan.

Then, finally, he pushes inside you.

It's slow, agonizingly so. His tip pushes past the tight ring of muscle, and then he's stretching you, inch by glorious inch, the feeling of his cock filling you stealing the breath from your lungs. The way he’s holding you open, the angle he's at, it's all perfect, and it's all for you.

He doesn't stop until he's fully sheathed inside you, and even then, he waits, his cock pulsing against your walls, giving you a moment to adjust. The teasing look in his eye is gone, replaced by a heated desire. He watches you, his gaze roving over your body, drinking in every detail.

The feeling is almost overwhelming, being stretched so completely, and you let out a shaky breath.

"How does it feel?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Good, really good."

He smiles, and gives a small, experimental thrust. You both gasp, the pleasure of the movement making your toes curl. He does it again, and again, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, and his eyes close, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

"Don't," he grunts. "I'm barely hanging on as it is."

"Don't what?"

“If you keep that up, I'm not going to last."

The words send a jolt through you, and a wicked idea crosses your mind. You rake your nails down his back, and he groans, his cock twitching inside you.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, his grip firm. You can't help but laugh, a smirk tugging at your lips.

"That's not playing fair," he chides.

"What, you can't handle a little teasing?"

He laughs, and shakes his head, his eyes locked onto yours. Then, he starts moving, his hips rolling into you, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt.

The rhythm he sets is steady, but deep. Each thrust is deliberate, calculated, and the way his cock fills you, the way he stretches and rubs against your walls, it's enough to make you forget everything but him.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"Yes," you gasp.

"What else do you want?"

"I—"

You're not sure how to answer. You're not used to someone asking you what you want, what you like.

"Tell me," he says, and his fingers lace together with yours, pressing your hands against the bed.

The intimacy of the gesture sends a rush through your body, and your walls clench around his cock. He lets out a surprised noise, his eyes fluttering shut.

When he opens them again, his gaze is intense, a hunger burning in his eyes. He looks at you, really looks at you, and you feel a thrill run through your body.

You take a deep breath, and try to focus, to collect your thoughts.

It's not easy.

He's not making it easy.

You think back to all the times the two of you have been together, all the times you've teased each other, all the moments where the tension between the two of you has threatened to boil over.

There's a question you've always wanted to ask him, a fantasy you've had ever since you first met him.

And now, it seems like the right time to ask.

"I want...I want to know what it feels like to have you come inside me."

He goes still, his cock throbbing inside you, and a shiver runs through his body.

His eyes widen, and he stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. For a moment, neither of you say anything. You hold his gaze, and your cheeks flush, the confession hanging in the air.

Finally, he lets out a strangled groan, and his head drops to your shoulder.

"That's..." He trails off, his voice rough.

"Is that not—"

"No, that's..." He groans, and his hips buck against yours, his cock pulsing.

You let out a breathless laugh.

You never would have thought Hunter could be flustered. But here he is, the man who can stare death in the face without flinching, and the mere thought of coming inside you has him practically vibrating.

"I've never done that," he confesses, and his voice is barely a whisper.

The confession is surprising, but it's not entirely unexpected. Hunter's life hasn't exactly given him a lot of opportunities to indulge in pleasure.

"Do you want to?" you ask.

"Yes." He lets out a low growl and presses a kiss to your shoulder. "But only if you're okay with it."

"I'm more than okay with it," you say, smiling. "I want to feel it."

"Maker, you're going to kill me," he murmurs.

His voice is a low rumble, and a shudder runs through you. The desire in his words is undeniable, and the thought of him giving into it, letting go, makes you dizzy with lust.

He shifts, releasing your hands, and his own move down to your hips. He pulls out of you, and you can't help but let out a disappointed whine, but before you can protest, he flips you over, pressing your chest against the mattress as he guides your knees beneath you.

He moves behind you, his hands running up your thighs, over the curve of your ass, and a moan escapes your lips. Your cheek is pressed against the sheets, and the vulnerability of the position sends a shiver down your spine.

You feel his fingers part your folds, his thumb brushing over your clit. His other hand slides down your back, and then his cock is pushing back inside you, filling you completely. The position allows him to go deeper, and you feel him hit the furthest point inside you, a choked moan escaping your throat as a flood of heat washes over your body.

He leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, and his hands come up to rest on either side of your head. He's practically bent over you, his hips rolling against yours, and the feeling of his weight bearing down on you, the sensation of his skin warm against yours, it's enough to drive you crazy.

You can't believe this is happening, that the two of you are finally here, after all the teasing, all the flirting, all the stolen glances and secret smiles. You feel his lips on your neck, his breath hot and ragged, and a low moan slips past your lips.

You're not sure how long you can last like this, his cock buried inside you, his body pressed against yours, his hands pinning you in place. And judging by the way his hips are thrusting, his pace growing erratic, he's not going to last much longer either.

The thought sends a jolt through your body, and you push back against him, eager to meet his thrusts. He lets out a choked sound, his fingers digging into the sheets, and his breath is hot against your neck.

"Stars, that feels good," he pants, and his voice is strained. “I’m getting close."

The words send a rush through your body, and you can't help but clench around his cock. The feeling makes him groan, and his hands leave the bed, wrapping around your body. One grips your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, while the other finds your clit, circling the sensitive bud with his thumb.

"I'm going to make a mess of you," he murmurs, and his voice is low and rough, the promise in his words sending a shiver down your spine.

The image flashes through your mind, of Hunter's cum leaking out of you, staining the sheets, and a surge of heat washes over your body, making your toes curl.

"Do it," you breathe, and he groans and pinches your clit, making you gasp.

"I will," he says, his voice a low rumble, and you feel his mouth trail up the back of your neck. His lips find your ear, and his breath is hot against your skin as he speaks. “I want to feel you come, and then I'm going to fill you up. Do you want that, cyar’ika?"

The words are practically a growl, and the raw need in his voice sends a shiver through your body. You can't take much more. Between his words and his cock, you're about to lose it, and his thrusts are becoming desperate, his movements frantic.

“Please,” you whimper, and that's all he needs to hear.

His thumb presses hard against your clit, and his hips snap forward, his cock burying itself inside you. The pleasure is intense, and a cry falls from your lips, your eyes squeezing shut as the orgasm tears through you.

He doesn't stop. He keeps thrusting, his rhythm fast and uneven, his breath coming in ragged gasps as your walls flutter around him. You're overwhelmed, your senses overloaded, and you can't help but buck against him, riding the waves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Fuck, that's it," he moans, and his fingers tighten on your hip.

His pace is punishing, and the pressure builds, his cock slamming into you with each thrust. He's lost himself in you, and you love it, the knowledge that you're the one bringing him this pleasure.

You feel his cock twitch inside you, and he lets out a broken moan, his hips stuttering. And then, he's coming, burying himself as deep inside you as he can get as his cock pulses. The feeling of his cum spilling inside you, the wet, warm heat of it, sends a shockwave through your body, and another wave of pleasure washes over you.

It's the most intimate, the most erotic thing you've ever felt.

Hunter shudders against you, his body shaking as he gasps, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts. His hips jerk, and his grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you still as he empties himself inside you.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, neither of you speaking. The only sound is the ragged breathing coming from both of you. It takes a few minutes for the haze of pleasure to clear, and when it does, he slowly pulls out of you.

He collapses on the bed beside you, and you roll onto your back, looking up at the bottom of the bunk above you.

You're completely spent, the adrenaline and pleasure leaving your body. You glance out of the corner of your eye and smirk.

Hunter is staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes wide.

"You alright, Sergeant?" you tease.

He lets out a huff and turns to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Give me a minute," he says, and lets out a laugh, shaking his head.

He's beautiful like this, relaxed and carefree, his hair a mess, his face flushed. It's a far cry from his usual serious demeanor, and the sight sends a wave of affection through you. You want to reach out and touch him, but you're not sure if that’s what he wants. You’ve never really done this, never had the opportunity to have someone stay afterwards.

You're not sure what the protocol is, or if there even is a protocol. Do you cuddle? Do you make small talk? What if he's expecting you to leave?

“C’mere.”

Hunter pulls you against him, his arm wrapping around you, and your worries fade away. You snuggle closer, resting your head on his chest and throwing your leg over his. His body is warm, and his heartbeat is strong and steady, a comforting rhythm against your ear.

Your eyes flutter closed, and for a long moment, the two of you simply lay there, content to enjoy each other's company. His hand trails lazily over your arm, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

A small, satisfied sigh escapes your lips.

You didn’t expect this to happen, but stars, are you glad it did.

The thought crosses your mind that maybe you should have some regrets, maybe you should have second thoughts. But you can't find it in yourself to care. There is a question on your mind, though, and it’s one you can’t help but ask.

"What does cyar’ika mean?" you ask, your hand tracing the outline of his tattoo.

Hunter tenses, his body going rigid beneath you. You immediately regret asking, and you start to pull away, but his grip tightens, holding you in place.

“Did I say that?” he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

He's silent, his fingers absently tracing the outline of your shoulder. You're afraid he's not going to answer, but then he sighs. “It means sweetheart. Darling. Something like that."

Your heart skips a beat.

"Oh," you manage, and your cheeks flush.

"Sorry, it's...it just slipped out. I wasn't thinking." He shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, and he looks almost nervous. “You don’t mind, do you?”

"Mind?” You blink, and shake your head. A smile tugs at your lips, and you let out a small, surprised laugh. "No, I don't mind."

His brow furrows, and he stares at you, his eyes searching yours.

“It's just...no one ever called me anything like that before,” you say, a little embarrassed.

A surprised expression crosses his face, and then his expression softens. He cups your face in his hand, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

"They should have,” he murmurs.

It's such a simple, earnest statement, and the emotion in his voice makes your chest tighten. You look away, suddenly overwhelmed, and a shaky laugh slips past your lips.

“I’m nothing special, Hunter. Not really."

He lets out a small scoff, and the hand on your cheek guides your face back to his, his gaze locking onto yours.

“You are to me."

There's no hesitation in his voice, no uncertainty. The words are spoken with a quiet conviction, and the weight of them settles around you, a warmth blooming in your chest and flushing your cheeks. Your heart flutters, and you swallow, suddenly at a loss for words.

"You're cute when you're flustered," he murmurs, his tone teasing. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to be shy."

"Shut up," you grumble, and his smile widens.

"No, I mean it. I love seeing this side of you." He pulls you in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin. When he pulls away, his eyes are warm, his gaze filled with an affection that takes your breath away.

Your heart swells, and you can't help but smile.

It's too soon for love. You know that. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, it makes you feel things you've never felt before. It makes you feel like it might be possible, one day.

And that's enough.

You rest your head on his chest again, your hand reaching up to run through his hair, and he lets out a sigh, relaxing against you.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," you mumble, unable to stop the words from coming out.

"That's true." His voice is quiet, his touch gentle, and he nudges you, his chin pressing into the top of your head. "But I'd like to learn. If you'll let me."

You're not used to being asked for anything, much less given a choice. Hunter's words, and the implication behind them, leave you speechless. You stare up at him, not quite sure what to say, and his expression falters, uncertainty crossing his face.

You swallow, and nod.

A grin spreads across his face, and he looks like he's trying to suppress it, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's a rare sight, a genuine, unguarded smile from him, and you can't help but chuckle.

The sound is enough to break him. His expression softens, and a low, rumbling laugh escapes his chest, the sound filling the room. You lean in, and kiss him, slow and tender. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and his laughter fades, replaced by a contented sigh.

You've never felt more comfortable, more safe.

Or more at home.

As the two of you lay there, tangled together, you realize something.

You're not sure how it happened, or when, but somewhere along the way, Hunter became a part of your life. And now, it seems impossible to imagine a life without him.

And for the first time in a long while, the thought of the future doesn't fill you with dread.

It fills you with hope.

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, your bodies pressed together.

You sleep better than you have in a long time.

taglist: @covert1ntrovert @baddest-batchers @bruh-myguy-what @spicy-clones @qvnthesia

@arctrooper69 @kindalonleystars @cw80831 @totallyunidentified @heidnspeak

@lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @chocolatewastelandtriumph @etod @puppetscenario

@umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano

@burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster

@lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @mali-777 @schrodingersraven

@megmegalodondon

[prentissluvr]

love you again — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied exes to lovers, canon typical injury and blood, hospitals, pet names (honey, sweetheart), 2K words. requested !

summary : you and sam have a past that’s rekindled during the panicked moments where he finds you bleeding out on a hunt.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam was thinking about you yesterday, again. he’s been wondering how you are, wondering if you’d hate a text from him, wondering if you’d pick up a call. he’s been wondering a whole lot, and it’s mostly about you. some about himself. he wonders how to apologize for growing distant, he wonders if he’d be better for you if you gave him the chance. he wonders if you blame him and hopes that you don’t because he doesn’t blame you. it was his fault for letting things start to fade out first, but for a while it stung that you never tried to bring him back to you.

back then, it was what he needed. someone that would hold his hand tighter were he to loosen his own grip. and he supposes you needed someone who was already sure of things, who wouldn’t pull away in the first place. so, he doesn’t blame you.

sam also wonders about silly little things. like how you might’ve reacted to your favorite west coast family diner shutting down. he was disappointed when he found out, but he was downright sad for you. he wonders about what kind of hunts you're going on and he wonders if you still carry that little old silver blade that desperately needs replacing.

and since he was thinking about you yesterday, that means he thought about you this morning, in the hazy moments between waking and getting up and going. since then it’s been all research and interviews and cracking the case the second day in town. before you cross his mind again, he and dean are in the impala on the way to take out a nest of vampires.

but of all the many times that sam has thought of you since you parted, not once did he envision finding you like this.

sprawled out on the dirty ground in a pool of blood.

certainly, he’s thought about you dying and how completely horrifying that would be. how sad and heartbreaking. all of the things he’d never get to say to you. but he always thought he’d hear through a mutual hunter friend, never that he’d be the one to find you bleeding out.

the moment he realizes the body on the floor is yours, all of the blood drains from his face. he gasps out your name and tuckes his machete away as he drops to your side. your eyes are still open, and your breath comes out with a horrid, shuddering sound.

“hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures you, immediately locating the wound on your neck and pressing a steady hand against it to slow the blood. your eyes are already fluttering, and you look like you’ll pass out any moment now. “stay with me, honey,” he says, voice both stern and soft. the sweet pet name slips out on instinct. you’re his honey, even now. maybe especially now.

“suh-sam?” you rasp out, fighting for breath. you can’t even figure out if he’s real. maybe you’re delirious as you bleed out pathetically. you killed all the vamps except the one that got to you. that one fled when car headlights filtered through the drawn blinds of the room, before it could fully sink its fangs into your neck. if it had gotten to your artery, you’d probably be dead already, and that’s the only thing that gives you hope. plus, you realize that the headlights of the car must have been sam, and most likely dean too. that means it must really be him, after all this time.

“it’s me,” sam assures you. “i got you. just keep your eyes open, okay?”

you let out a shuddering breath in response. “th-there’s j-just one more,” you grunt out, “h-he r-ran.”

“shh, shh, it’s okay. dean’s got it,” sam hushes you swiftly, confused for a moment before realizing that you’re talking about the vamps. “don’t worry about talking, alright, honey?” he won’t be able to stop calling you that, not when he could lose you, in a far worse way this time. “just keep those eyes open for me, and you’ll be alright.”

while you almost want to protest, to say something to him, anything, you stop trying to talk. it’s taking far too much effort. you really wish you could comfort him, tell him that you’ll be alright. but in this state, you have to opt for bringing your shaking hand up and wrapping it loosely around his wrist. you give it a small squeeze to show him that you’re there, you’re trying so hard to stay awake just for him.

his heart aches as he feels your weak hold around his wrist and understands its meaning. sometimes he forgets how well he knows you, and right now, it sends a pang of desperation through him.

“i really need you to stay with me,” he says, mantaining that soft and steady tone to keep you grounded. you want to stay with him too, you really do. you want to keep looking at his face, even though it’s blurry and frowning. though, while you do prefer his smile, you’ve always thought that he looks beautiful no matter what. it’s probably cruel of you to find his distressed expression attractive right now, but it’s also true that you’re a little delirious and maybe bleeding out, so you don’t suppose you can be blamed.

it really bothers you that you can’t talk. more than anything, you want to reassure him. you also want to tell him that he’s been sorely missed, that his hair looks very nice like this, and that you really don’t want to die because that means you won’t have the chance to kiss him ever again. maybe you should just say that you’d like the chance to kiss him again. or that you don’t want to die. you’re not really sure.

“dean!” sam yells suddenly, voice gruff and loud and tinged with panic. if you weren’t slipping away, you’d have flinched. things begin to blur then; sam picks you up and practically cradles you in his arms. he’s so soft and he’d be shaky if he could afford to be. but he absolutely can’t, so he’s unwavering instead.

“jesus,” mutters another worried voice, distant, but assumed to be dean’s. you try to focus on the feeling of your head on sam’s shoulder. he’s so solid and broad and that might be the only thing keeping you from just floating away.

everything fades in and out. sam’s big, encompassing hand pressed against your neck. so big that it overflows and his thumb pushes into the flesh of your cheek. your head’s still on his shoulder, but you're in the car now, slumped against familiar leather seats. the sound of the rumbling engine fills your ears and then you’re glad to hear sam again.

“we’re almost to the hospital, sweetheart,” he tells you gently. you grunt out in acknowledgment, soft and quiet. you can’t remember ever hearing his voice like this before. all panicked and sweet and tender. when dean gets hurt, his voice gets all gruff. with you, it’s this never ending gentleness, edged with sharp fear.

in your position, sam or dean probably would’ve made it to the hospital without passing out. but you’re not good with blood loss, even when it could’ve been far worse. you’re scared of dying, as always, but when your eyes flutter closed and your consciousness tilts into darkness, you feel so secure in sam’s arms that you figure you’ll be okay. it’s a strange feeling, and you likely won’t recall it when you wake up.

sam himself is far less calm than you when your head lolls forward.

“hey, hey, hey. honey, please don’t,” he urges, helpless at this point. his plea falls on deaf ears, of course. dean steps on the gas, driving far faster than is safe. it’s late though, and the roads are mostly clear.

sam keeps you close. sam has trouble parting from you at the hospital, but the doctor needs to treat you. everything’s a bit better when he’s told that you’ll be just fine after proper bandaging, rest, and a blood transfusion and iv. everything’s a lot better when he’s back by your side and holding your hand in his.

looking at your face now, cleaned of blood splatter and relaxed in sleep, he’s able to really take in the ways you’ve changed physically. you do look different, but not by too much. he’s mostly just enthralled with how beautiful you are.

there’s also the feeling of the jacket you were wearing, folded nicely across his lap. he’s not really sure why he put it there, instead of leaving it on the bottom of the bed where it was first laid out. but he picked it up, for some reason or another, and felt a lump in the pocket. he knows he probably shouldn’t have looked at your things, but he felt like he had to. sliding his hand into the worn fabric sends a rush through him. once, you held hands in your pocket when it was cold outside. he always runs warm, so you had decided to tuck his hand into your pocket like your own personal hand warmer.

in the pocket, he finds that old silver blade that he thinks about sometimes. it’s even more worn now, and he shakes his head at you softly, affectionately. he bought a new silver knife recently, and if you let him, he’s going to give it to you. then he sits in the chair by your side, placing the jacket in his lap before he takes your hand in his.

the first thing that you feel is a big hand wrapped around yours. and as you draw in a long breath, you know that it’s sam’s. that means that when you get your eyes to open—it’s a little hard right now—you’ll get to see him. another deep breath, and your eyes flutter open.

sam’s grip on your hand tightens a little.

“hey,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your form, looking for discomfort or a way to give you his love. your own gaze settles on his face; his worried brows and small frown and pretty eyes.

“hi,” you whisper, voice hoarse and tired. you squeeze his hand back lightly.

“how you feeling?” he asks softly.

“i’m okay,” you offer, giving him a small smile. you’ve been far worse in the past, you’re just groggy and a little sore. honestly, it’s rare to be this well cared for after getting injured on a hunt, and with sam by your side, it’s sort of nice, even.

sam, of course, considers asking how you really are. but with the way you’re looking at him, all soft and… well, how you used to when things were uncomplicated, he accepts your answer. 

“good. you need anything? water?” he still needs to take care of you somehow.

you can’t help but smile at him again. “water would be nice,” you admit, knowing that it’ll make him feel better to be able to do something for you. that, and your throat really does burn with how dry it is. the gruffness of your voice reflects that. it’s oddly intimate when sam opens the water bottle at your bedside and brings it to your lips, ever careful when he tilts it and lets a bit of water flow into your softly opened lips. it’s intimate enough to make your face all warm with rushing blood.

you still love him. you really do. or maybe you love him again; you can feel that he’s different, and you know that you are, and somehow it feels like his hand fits in yours better tonight… or maybe it just feels more right now.

the time apart was needed, the way it happened still stings a little, and the way that you found each other again was less than ideal. well, sam certainly hates how it happened much more than you do. he had to do all the worrying, all the saving. you got to feel him holding you and hear him calling you honey and see him caring about you so much. so now, you’re just glad for the chance to kiss him again, because it’s that easy to tell that you have it.

[yanderes-galore]

May I ask for a Daemon Targaryen concept from A Song Of Ice And Fire?

Daemon is certainly... terrifying as a yandere, actually-

Yandere! Daemon Targaryen Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Flirtation/Implied unwanted advances, Possessive behavior, Controlling behavior, Violence, Murder, Blood, Threats, Isolation, Mature themes, Mentions of bedding, Toxic behavior, Forced marriage, Biting/Marking, Forced relationship.

Daemon is arrogant, a prince uncontrolled and demanding of approval.

He's known for seducing those that capture his interest.

Out of most of the ASOIAF yanderes, I assume Daemon is among the worst.

He's persistent, demanding, and controlling.

He wants power as much as he wants approval.

He has a twisted form of love towards those close to him and isn't afraid to do immoral acts to get what he wants.

Need I remind you Daemon had his original wife killed as he didn't like her?

I imagine Daemon would trail behind his obsession like a shadow if they caught his interest.

It's nearly impossible to get rid of him.

Plus, Daemon has one of the fiercest dragons at his disposal, Caraxes.

The Rogue Prince is described as charming yet dangerous.

He is quick to take offense and hates others wounding his ego.

Which means if you refuse him, he tries harder.

Daemon is used to people finding him attractive.

He could take anyone he wants to his bed.

Except you.

You refusing his interest... would no doubt wound him and his pride.

Daemon definitely likes what he can't have.

He's someone who has learned he has to fight for the attention he deserves.

In fact, it's canon he cherishes the approval of his brother Viserys.

He hates being neglected.

He hates being controlled.

I'd imagine Daemon's courting is not only persistent, but violent.

Daemon would fight in tourneys for you, find you gifts, anything to impress you.

Daemon originally saw seducing you as a challenge, yet another little conquest to add to his belt.

But over time I can see Daemon... crave your presence.

A way I think a yandere Daemon could start is certainly with someone who doesn't immediately give in to him.

At first he's obsessed with the challenge, but soon realizes he can't bring himself to stay away.

Daemon can't even distract himself with other partners.

Brothels don't have much appeal anymore, maids offering themselves to him just makes him irritated.

He wonders if he can't part from you due to his ego at first.

He can't admit that you won this little game of his.

In reality, he's obsessed with you.

He craves your praise, your attention, your approval.

He no longer wishes to seduce you and be done with it.

Now he feels he needs you... all of you.

It's not just about bedding or pleasure now...

He feels no one else can satisfy him but you.

By this point... he'll do anything for you.

Just so he can get that approval he craves, even if it harms his ego.

Daemon is known to quickly take to violence.

With you it's rare, thankfully.

To others? Well... it's certainly more common.

Daemon wouldn't want anyone else courting you once he has his eyes on you.

Daemon pays close attention to those around you.

Servants, knights, lords....

The moment he sees someone court you, he's quick to stop it.

He may simply step in the way, perhaps even threaten them in a low tone as he grips his sword.

I wouldn't put killing other suitors past him.

He may excuse it as a "duel gone wrong", even though the reason his sword is dripping blood is because he played unfair.

Daemon's selfish, he doesn't care about your freedom.

In the end he ultimately wants you as his.

He even turns down other proposals for a betrothed, his gaze fixed on you.

After all, he's willing to go beyond immoral to have you.

He'll spill the blood of countless others if it means locking you into a marriage with him.

You could have a betrothed, or merely a secret lover, Daemon will find out.

Is it really that much of a surprise to learn he's killed them?

The scene is no doubt grotesque, his blade deep inside their flesh as their blood pools on the ground.

Surely you'll see just how serious he is, yes?

Which means... you should know what your answer is when he asks you to marry him, right?

Obviously, Daemon is possessive.

Possessive to the point he'd paint the streets red without even needing Caraxes to make you his.

You, as his beloved, can only resist his need for so long.

It feels fantastic when he marries you, a traditional Targaryen wedding.

By the end of it he knows you're his.

No one can touch you without expected consequences.

Touching what belongs to Daemon is the same as disrespecting him.

He never wants you far from him, keeping you by his side with a hand around your waist.

Any who insult you are met with their tongue taken... in the literal sense.

It's hard to calculate how many would fall to Daemon's blade over you.

The blood means nothing to them.

In fact, their corpses help feed his steed Caraxes, the blood wyrm even seeming to appreciate your presence.

Daemon doesn't understand why you bother mourning.

He's making a point, he's showing you're his.

You're his to possess.

You could try to flee, you could try to hide, Daemon knows you're his even if you don't.

Why bother looking so upset...?

Daemon showers you in affection and gifts, anything to earn the approval he craves.

He wants you to feed his ego, to tell him you love him.

He wants you to kiss him as he holds you in his lap.

He wants you to squirm when he digs his teeth into your neck.

You should be happy he's so dedicated.

He's even had his previous lovers killed to show you he's focused on you.

Is that what you wanted?

Do you crave his dedication?

If that will make you his... then he'll do anything.

To Daemon, he takes his House's saying seriously.

Daemon would spread 'Fire and Blood' if it meant you'd be his alone.

You'd be mistaken if you still thought he did all this just to bed you.

No, Now Daemon has truly given into his obsession... He only wants you...

No matter how many have to burn or be cut down... you'll always be his.