#i will brush my teeth and i will get an icepack and then i will lie down

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

super fun new years day adventure of take elderly cat to the emergency vet

[delopsia]

Ma'am | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 3,600 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes:  18+, CNC Roleplay (Consensual Non-Consent). Not familiar with CNC? Click here to learn about it before you read! Slight somnophilia if you squint, Fem!Reader, overstimulation, blowjobs, unprotected sex, sub!bob, some aftercare cuddles, the usual :)

Your office is supposed to be empty. 

There isn't supposed to be anyone else in here but you. Hell, nobody even bothered to tell you they were sending someone in here. But there he is, that cute, blue-eyed weapons systems officer belonging to the newest batch of Top Gun students, sitting on one of the beds. Robert Floyd, the sweetest thing that's ever walked through your door, with his bashful smile and old-fashioned manners that make your heart swoon.

"I don't suppose you're just here to visit," you say, shaking from your stupor.

Bob shakes his head, "no, ma'am, I uh..." looking down at his folded hands like a child who's just gotten into trouble, "my ribs are hurtin' me real bad, is all."

"Now, when did that start?" The poor thing winces as you guide him to lay back against the thin mattress, immediately reaching for his left side. 

"Little bit ago," screwing his eyes shut as he speaks, "wasn't payin' attention and fell out the jet, is all." 

Ah. 

That...yeah, that will do it. It certainly explains the scuffs on the corner of his silver frames; you're almost surprised they didn't wind up shattered. He's already wriggled halfway out of his flight suit, the arms of the garment loosely tied around his waist. You still need to lift his shirt to get a better look at his injury, and that is...quite an eyeful.

The soft outline of his abs, milky white and bearing the faintest scattering of freckles, you wonder what shape they'd make if you took a pen and connected them. Then there's his chest; you shouldn't be surprised if the light hits him just right; you can usually see the gentle curve of his pectoral muscles hiding under his t-shirt. But good lord, he's more defined than he lets on.

It's always the shy ones.

You almost have to shake your head to stop yourself from ogling before he catches on. 

There's a bright patch of red that's blossomed alongside his ribcage, the skin puffy and swollen. Your fingers brush against the area, and he audibly gasps.

"I'm sorry," lightening your already barely-there touch, "did that hurt?"

Bob shakes his head, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, "your hands are freezing." 

In contrast, his skin burns beneath your touch, emanating heat like he's a living, breathing furnace. A lot of the students that wander into your office tend to run warm, but this one is just something else entirely. But unlike many of your visitors, Bob stays relatively quiet for you, even as you poke and prod, determining what needs to be done and if he needs to be sent to get x-rays.

You take your time. Usually, you can breeze through stuff like this and have them in and out in just a minute or two, but Bob is one of your exceptions. Maybe it's because he's become your favorite frequent flyer, or perhaps it's because he's just flat-out pretty to look at. 

Ultimately, you conclude that he needs nothing more than the basics. Painkillers, ice, and as much rest as one can get when they're attending a school like Top Gun. 

"But I'm going to keep you here for about an hour or two," you say, wrapping this fresh new icepack in a thin towel because it's far too cold to comfortably press against bare skin, "make sure you rest at least a little bit before your teachers get ahold of you again."

"Thank you, ma'am." Even with his injury, he's all smiles, like a big puppy that's just happy to be here.

You're going to melt faster than the ice pack at this rate. 

In the time it takes you to finish up some paperwork and get it sorted into the places it needs to go, Bob falls asleep, phone balanced in the palm of his hand. He doesn't stir when you walk over to him and quietly take the phone from him, setting it on the table where it can't fall. Usually, if that doesn't wake them up, pulling the blanket overtop them will, but that doesn't do it either. 

He's out cold, has the tiniest snore going on as you tuck the blanket over his broad shoulders.

You don't get to idle as long as you wish you could because you've got an admiral knocking at your door with two pilots in tow. One has a bloody nose; the other has one hell of a black eye.

Bob was a luxury; these two are a curse sent by the Devil himself. 

You almost forget he's there. 

After you manage to wrangle the quarreling pilots out of your office, all patched up and ready to go back to training, Bob completely slips your mind. There are so many things to do, emails to be written, supplies to be unboxed and put away, medical instruments to thoroughly clean and organize. 

You're in the middle of typing up a strongly-worded letter to the maintenance manager, asking him to once again have someone come and look at the ice machine because it has quit working mere hours after the last guy "fixed" it. So invested in documenting every single instance it has broken this past month alone that you're startled when you hear a noise come from the other side of the room.

It's not until your eyes land on the still-sleeping WSO that you realize what had made the noise in the first place. It's Bob whining in his sleep. At first, you're under the assumption that he's having a nightmare, but as you get up from your desk and walk over to his bed, you realize that's not the case. 

No, he's having a wet dream. 

It's evident in the soft noises slipping past his bitten lips isn't enough of a sign, and the hardness pressing against the thin material of his flight suit. At some point in his sleep, he pushed the blanket off of himself, the thin material just barely hanging on to the edge of the bed, and you wish he hadn't because now all you can do is stare at the faint outline of his hard cock. 

You shouldn't be standing here and just...watching, but you can't help yourself. Who knew such a shy little thing could make such noises as these? 

And maybe, maybe sitting on the edge of the bed couldn't hurt. Then, if he wakes up, you'll brush it off and tell him you were trying to wake him up. Yeah, yeah, that sounds pretty normal.

What isn't normal is the way your hand seems to have a mind of its own, wandering out from its respective place at your side and trailing up the inside of his clothed thigh. Even now, Bob doesn't stir. Growing confident, you let your palm massage over him, curiously mapping out the feeling of his cock under your touch. His hips jump. 

He wakes with a gasp, sleepy eyes blinking open, "...huh?"

By the time you comprehend he's awake, you're already rolling your palm back over him, and you really really should stop now while you have a fighting chance at explaining this away, but oh, the way those pretty eyes roll back. He sighs like he's been offered some immense relief, sleepily grinding his hips up as you make another pass over his cock. 

"Ma'am," his sleep-clouded brain must have finally caught up, "ma'am, I think...I don't think you're supposed to touch me there, ma'am." 

In contrast to his words, though, he's still grinding his hips up, still making those noises under his breath; if anything, they're a little louder now. Bolder now, you wrap your fingers around him, stroking up and down his length through his clothes.

"Does that feel good?" You ask, feigning innocence as you keep stroking him as if the noises he's making aren't enough of an answer. 

"Yes, ma'am, it...it does," he whispers, "but I don't...I don't think you should—" he's cut off by his own noises, keening high in his throat as you grip him a little harder—the best you can, with these clothes in the way, at least.

He reaches down, taking hold of your wrist, but does nothing more than that, "oh God, your hand."

Despite his earlier protests, he audibly fusses when you let him go, whining like he's disappointed that you've chosen to quit touching him. The grip on your wrist tightens, holding on as you reach up to pull the zipper to his flight suit as far down as it will go. Granting you the wonderous ability to slip your hand past his waistband and take hold of him without warning. 

The strangled noise that escapes him is loud, bouncing off the walls and ringing through your ears like the sweetest melody. Incapable of stopping you from easing him out from his confines, exposing his thick, dripping cock to the cold office air. Poor thing looks like he's been hard for a while, the head of his cock shiny with precum and solid as a fucking rock. 

"Wait, I think I want you to—" but again, he's cut off by himself, unable to keep quiet as you drag your hand down his length, "ma'am."

He squirms with every stroke, hips wriggling against the mattress like he doesn't know if he wants more or if he wants it to stop. So conflicted that he's got no choice but to lie and take it, whimpering pitifully as you massage your palm against the head of his cock, working in perfect, slow spirals. 

Who would have thought that the shy WSO, Robert "Bob" Floyd, could make such sinful noises when you stroke his cock? 

"Wh...huh?" He gasps as you let him go, length wetly slapping against his stomach, "what are you...?"

Again, he doesn't stop you as you move, scooting further onto the bed until you can swing your leg over, comfortably straddling his legs. Big, confused eyes peer up at you. He's still holding onto your wrist like it's the only thing keeping him grounded right now, but even his iron grip flutters when you retake hold of him. 

"Oh." All you've done is flatten your wet tongue against the underside of his cock, and he's already moaning so prettily for you, "oh, ma'am, your mouth." 

He's a considerable weight against your tongue, so soft as your tongue slides back and forth along the crown of it. The sensation is enough to make him squirm, forcing you to pin his hips to keep him from wiggling right out of your grasp. 

"Ma'am, ma'am, you shouldn't—" Bob's hands cling to the sides of your head, but he's powerless to stop your mouth from sinking down on his cock, sucking on his head like it's the sweetest treat you've ever gotten. 

The further down you creep, the breathier his protests become, sounds like he's just run a marathon, and you haven't even taken all of him yet. He's so thick that by the time you've taken his length as far as you comfortably can, an ache has already blossomed in your jaw. 

"Ma'am, please," he gasps quietly, "please."

You're not sure what he's requesting; for more or for you to stop. Slowly, you raise your head, tongue pressing hard against the vein running underneath his length, and one of his hands flies up, audibly clamping atop his mouth. You repeat it. Once, twice, each time feeling him grow tenser beneath you, reactions muffled by his palm. 

No, that certainly won't do.

Breathing deep through your nose, you push yourself just a little further down this time, feeling him press into your throat but not quite entering it yet. 

"Oh my god," now that is what you wanted to hear, "ma'am, don't, don't."

But a hand on the back of your head pushes you further down, and you hum around him, amused by his conflicting expressions and the way he jolts under you like a live wire. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you slowly work him deeper, reaching just the tiniest fraction more with every slow bob of your head. 

His head thrashes back and forth, and you're pretty sure that's his glasses you hear hitting the floor when you finally get him into your throat. His precious little whines are growing louder with every repeated motion, "oh ma'am, oh ma'am," he chants, "please, I'm gonna..."

It might just be the best thing you've heard all day, those breathy whispers as he struggles to keep himself quiet. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you force him a little deeper, so captured by his reactions that you don't quite mind if your voice gets wrecked. 

"If you don't..." chest heaving, "if you don't stop, I'm gonna..." 

Can't even finish a single sentence when your mouth is on him. So responsive; it's a wonder he doesn't have a line of people waiting to hear those sinful little sounds. Weakly, you swallow around him, and you're mesmerized by how his back arches off the bed, exposing the slightest sliver of his defined tummy. 

"Ma'am, I'm gonna..." you think he shivers when you snake a hand under his shirt, tracing over those soft, milky white abs.

All it takes is one more bob of your head, and he's cumming, hot, salty cum hitting the back of your throat and tongue. You try to swallow it down the best you can, but it just never seems to end. Just as you think you've swallowed the last of him, his shivering hips twitch up again, another streak of white painting your tongue. 

"Oh god, oh god," his voice has hit a new pitch, one you don't think you've heard before, "ma'am, please, I'm still in your mouth."

Bob's trembling like a leaf below you, so much that you can feel his cock quivering in your mouth. No, maybe you'll keep going for a moment. 

"It's too sensitive," he rushes out as you lower your head once more, "please, it's too sensitive." 

At this angle, you're just barely able to creep up and roll a soft nipple between your fingertips, massaging it in perfect tune with your mouth. Moving so slowly that it's like time has stopped. Bob just about thrashes out from under you when you lap at the underside of his head, where you know he's most sensitive. 

"Fuck, feels so good," he hiccups in between pitchy, strained sounds, "it feels so good." 

There's a new shimmer underneath his pretty eyes, wet with tears that seep out the corners, brought on by the over-attention paid to his softening cock. Finally, finally, you slip your mouth off of him, letting him hit his belly with a soft, wet 'smack.'

"Ma'am, why did you do that," he rambles, words so jumbled together that you can barely understand, "I'm gonna get in so much trouble—"

There's something in the way that you look at him that cuts him off. For just a second, he freezes, and then, suddenly, the corners of his eyes turn upward with a loud, broken laugh. Just like that, one simple look and the scenario shatters as you spill into a harmony of laughter together. 

"We almost made it this time!" You giggle, meeting his needy lips for a kiss, "what was so funny this time?"

Bob's already reaching up, running his fingers along your cheek, "you're panting like you just ran a marathon." 

Next time, you'll consider giving him headphones.

"At least you came before you started laughing this time," rolling your eyes as he kisses you once more, so eager and needy for these little pecks, no matter how many times you've given them to him. 

 "I was really hoping I could stop myself, too," he hums, speaking between kisses, "wanted you to ride me." 

You have to cup his jaw and hold him still to get him to stop stealing kisses, but that doesn't stop him from pouting like he never gets them, "I still can."

For a second, you're concerned that his eyes may have just reshaped themselves into hearts, and then he's nodding, uttering a tiny 'please' under his breath. 

You're only off of him for a few seconds, just long enough to slip your shoes and pants off in one quick go, but he still eagerly pulls you back on top of him, as if you'd left for a century and then some. Grunts when you take hold of him and guide him to your burning core, so sensitive but still so eager for more.

"How are you so wet, darlin'?" He asks, his voice strained as you slide his softening head back and forth between your folds, "I haven't even gotten to touch you yet."

He catches on your entrance, the both of you gasping as he slides inside with such remarkable ease. Growers are so much better than showers. "It's hard not to when I've got you whimpering beneath me."  

You can feel him twitching back to life as you guide him deeper, already half-hard by the time your hips meet, flush together as one. There's a shakiness settling in as he takes a deep breath, struggling to hold it down as he keens high in his throat. It's a lot, straddling the border between too much for him to handle, but he's nodding his head for you to go ahead, reaching down to press his thumb to your clit.

With both hands balanced on his chest, you tentatively lift your hips. Slow, enjoying the gentle drag of his plush head against that spongey spot inside, barely there but still just enough to make you clench around him.

"You can go faster, sweetheart," Bob croaks, thumb working a little quicker, as if to emphasize his statement, "you ain't gonna break me."

Okay, well, if he insists.

Drawing yourself back up quicker now, setting something comfortable that gives you exactly what you're craving. With every downward motion, you find that he's gotten a little harder, a little bigger inside of you until he's rock solid inside of you. There's a slight burn as he slowly stretches you back open, his head downright punching that little spot along your walls so hard that you can't breathe anymore.

His thumb is working you so well that your legs are starting to quiver from it, circle after circle rubbed into your sensitive button in the way only Robert Floyd can do.

"Feels so good," he whimpers, high-pitched and whiny, "so, so good."

You don't realize you've closed your eyes until they're fluttering open, and oh, there are more tears streaming down his cheeks. He smiles at your visible concern, nuzzling into the hand that you curl around his jaw, and nods his head. His hands remain in their places, one on your clit, the other holding your thigh, never once offering you his signal to stop.

So you keep going.

Then, as if caught completely off-guard by it, his back arches up off the bed, and with a loud gasp, he cums for a second time. Gasping, head rolling back as he whines high in his throat, God, he's starting to shake.

The sight alone is enough to set your own ball rolling, heat boiling up in your lower belly with each and every rise and fall of your hips. His thumb trembles against your clit, almost feels like its vibrating as he struggles to keep massaging it, and that's...that's—

With a soft cry, your hips come to a screeching halt as your orgasm washes over you. Your head is spinning so hard that you can no longer understand which way is up. Can't quite tell if that's him still trembling below you or if you've started shivering yourself. 

The next thing you're aware of is the soft hiccups beneath you, the barely-still hands that have locked themselves on your hips, keeping you completely still. 

Oh.

Lifting yourself off of him, you reach up, properly cradling his cheeks as your thumbs wipe away his tears. It takes him a moment to open his eyes again, but when he does, you realize those baby blues have become so, so soft. 

Bob smiles up at you, albeit weakly, "we finally did it." 

Kissing his forehead, "we finally did it." 

Your pants can wait until he's ready to try getting cleaned up. For right now, you're content to settle down next to him and pull this thin blanket back up, properly concealing the mess you've made. Bob is quick to snuggle into your open arms, his head underneath your chin as he buries his face into your clothed chest. 

"You didn't have to hurt yourself to get into my office, though," you murmur into his hairline, running your fingers through the back of it. His hair has always been so soft; it's like running your fingers through silk.

He chuckles at that, and you can about feel him smile into your shirt, "what's worse is, the fall wasn't a part of my plan," his hand snakes up under your shirt, tracing invisible shapes into your spine, "I legitimately misstepped and fell out of the plane." 

"At least now you don't have to fake an excuse for a while," pressing another kiss into his pale skin, "but I was being serious about you taking it easy, Floyd. That means no more long nights out partying with your buddies until they heal a little bit." 

That's enough to have him pulling back from you, making sure you see his eyes roll, and then, sounding like a begrudging little kid, "yes, ma'am."

[jamiesfootball]

Deleted Scene

For the wonderful @alter-alterego who requested for a gift fic-

"a deleted scene: something that just isn't fitting in one of your fics, but you set it aside, hoping to make it work somewhere else" and "a fun way to repurpose some writing - especially if it was a whole "kill your babies" sort of edit that broke your heart to cut it."

-and also some other words were thrown around like hurt/comfort.

So the thing is that I uh.... did not have any deleted scenes.

So.

I wrote one!

This is a deleted scene from Jamie's pov during ch 1 of Oh God You're Gonna Get It (You Have Not Been Given Love), taking place after the conversation on the couch but before the match the next day.

I would not say it necessarily slots into place - it does not have nearly the runway to hit that level of emotional intensity. Instead, I treated it more like a character study, a way to get down a bit of my thoughts on the where Jamie is at now. Refurbishing some writing thought, if you will.

Unfortunately, I did forget some of the comfort here - but the rest of the fic will have lots of comfort so???

Anyways. Thank you for your delightful request, friend. I hope you enjoy.

When awareness crept in behind his sleep-sealed eyes, a handful of problems offered themselves up to Jamie like unwanted presents. The first was that he hadn't brushed his teeth the night before, and his mouth tasted rank and fuzzy as a result. The next, that dried blood caked the inside of his nostrils, leaving behind an unpleasant, iron-tanged stuffiness. Final and worst came a deep and throbbing pain centered around his nose, passing along the message that something was swollen, if not outright bruised.

He'd been handed these gifts before, but crucial pieces were missing from the set. In their place, he'd been given imposters. Restfulness, when it should feel like he'd run a marathon. Something content beckoning him back towards sleep, instead of a familiar set of knives stabbing him in the chest, urging him to go, get away, anywhere but here.

His head felt weighed down by wet, drooping cotton, and that was new too, and in some ways worse than the distant emptiness he'd grown to rely on. At least emptiness knew how to sort out an icepack. Or a concussion. Or whatever it was that had him feeling floaty and lost.

Where the hell was he?

He cracked open his eyes. He didn't recognize the room — which didn't mean much when everyone he knew had more house than they knew what to do with. Still, there was something familiar about it, something that quieted any lingering panic that he might've woken up in a stranger's home.

It was cozy, but clean. Dark, woodsy room with antique lamps — too tasteful for Colin, too muted for Isaac. Art too boring for Sam. Everything far too clean for Dani.

A fuzzy blanket tickled his nose. In the dim light filtering in through the windows, he could see it was covered in unicorns and rainbows, all of it swirling around in a dizzying pattern. Shutting his eyes tight, he tugged it closer; it was surprisingly warm.

The couch was comfier than his too, cradling his shoulder against the cushion instead of pushing his tendons up into his neck until all he had to show for it was a splitting headache. No, this was lush, pliable with age and use. The blanket worn soft like someone cared for it. Made it feel like this was someone's home that Jamie was invading, and that made him feel like, feel —

A sick certainty settled in his stomach that he'd regret everything more when it was light out. Morning Jamie could sort that out. He didn't envy that guy at all.

He chewed his lip, unable to stop picking at the problem. His mouth tasted sour, and the dry ache behind his eyes sang a familiar song. Nausea twisted low in his stomach, and finally there it was, the tightness circling his chest and pulling into a knot. The room smelled like beer—

"Want to grab a beer later?"

"I thought you said I couldn't have beer anymore."

"Well, you're with me, so you get a pass," Roy had said, and Jamie could've floated off the floor with how it made his chest puff up—

Oh.

Oh.

This was Roy's house.

That's why his face hurt.

Jamie sighed, the building discomfort releasing in a wave of relief that left him dizzy, head floating above the soft cushions like he was balanced on a cloud.

He'd thought for a second-

He'd-

No. He'd been worried for nothing.

This was Roy's house. Made sense then, that his brain had picked up that he weren't anywhere bad. The dark furniture and the leather everything and the grainy wood; it was like the house and the man had been shaped out of the same men's catalogue from the eighties. Everything looked sturdy and settled in place.

He hadn't noticed the bright purple blanket last night, but then he couldn't have said what he did notice. They'd left the bar; everything past that was a whirlwind.

He owed Keeley an apology.

He frowned, worrying at the blanket with his thumb. He'd apologized to Roy. It'd went well, he thought. He hoped. He shouldn't get ahead of himself. He'd said a bunch of words without thinking them through first, and meaning them didn't stop it from feeling like he'd flayed some soft part of himself open with a knife and held out the scraps as a peace offering.

At least with Roy, he had a chance of being offered something back. Some reassurance, at least, that things weren't beyond repair. Whatever it was that brought that familiar growl down to something softer, still rough around the edges but not mean when he was making jokes, egging Jamie on and listening quiet thought while Jamie's thoughts spun circles across the carpet.

Letting Jamie say his peace. Accepting his apology for his behavior. Saying shit like, like he was proud of Jamie, even if Jamie hadn't done much to earn that lately.

Fuck.

And in the week since he'd sent that text to his dad, he hadn't gotten so much as a read receipt—

—which didn't mean anything, did it? Could be that he'd turned them off—

With a little shifting, he found his phone. He flicked it on, ignoring the familiar spike of panic as he did.

No new messages. Good.

Seven-percent battery life. Not good.

3:30 in the morning. Fuck.

Sighing, he switched it off. Looked like he was getting up.

He didn't move.

For once it wasn't the persistent, leaden feeling holding him down — like they'd taken every weight in the gym and tied it to his limbs when he wasn't looking. No, it was just, maybe if he didn't get up, last night wouldn't've happened.

A sickness, hot and sour, pooled in his stomach.

A week ago, he'd been at his mother's house, curled up and making the best out of whatever comfort he could drag towards him like a dying man. But this wasn't the same. He was a visitor here at best, his extended welcome debatable, and there was no one in this house obligated to brush his hair back and tell him if he was making a mistake.

Didn't mean he wouldn't take what he could get now that he'd earned his way in.

It was early. He was warm. Things hurt, but he was at Roy's. Nothing bad would find him here. Everything was fine and there were no unread messages waiting for him on his phone.

A warmed beer smell lingered in the air, musty and rank. He pushed his face further into the couch to get away from it. The couch smelled like old leather and glitter and fabric softener, and it didn't feel waxy or tacky against his skin and it molded around him like a hug. He didn't want to get up. He was tired.

He was so, so tired.

His undrunk beer sat on the table above his head. Now that he noticed the yeasty smell, it cloyed to the air, sinking into everything it touched.

He'd have to get up soon and deal with it. He had a lot of stuff to deal with. He didn't want Roy to think he couldn't handle it.

Since the boot room, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he'd gotten away with something. Roy had been nice. Too nice. The kind that had Jamie looking over his metaphoricle shoulder, waiting for the other boot to hit, because Jamie hadn't been professional about it at all. He'd collapsed in on himself, utterly crushed and incapable of hiding it another second, everything sticking and clawing out of him like a staunched wound fighting back.

But then Roy had been dead nice about it and he'd given him a pass and then he'd kept being nice and he'd invited Jamie out for a drink and Jamie had thought he was off the hook.

Knew better now, didn't he? He was on the hook, squirming as well as any other caught worm. The drinks hadn't been about Jamie, at least part of the niceness had been on loan, and his free pass had burned up in front of his eyes before he even knew he only had the one to spare.

Roy expected better of him.

That was fine. Jamie did too. He was up to the challenge; he knew what to avoid now. So in twenty minutes he’d get up. He’d take care of the beer bottles, rinse ‘em out in case Roy was one of those guys that got offended if you wasted his beer. With his phone battery low, he didn't have the juice to call for a pick up — he’d have to make the thirty-minute trek to his house. Unless he got lucky and stumbled across a taxi, that'd put him back at his own place in just under an hour. From there he’d dig out the white vinegar that he kept on hand for emergencies and see if he couldn’t buff out the stain on his chest. Stone Island wasn’t exactly his brand of choice, and they weren't interested in signing him on as a permanent brand ambassador, but they'd been pleasant to work with and they paid well and he’d only had the jacket for three days and he hadn’t been papped in it yet and it’d be fucking embarrassing for everyone involved if he went crying to them that he’d need a new one cause he’d already ruined the first one.

(He'd still do it if he had to though -- it wouldn’t be the first time a little blood threatened a brand deal.) No, one way or another he’d be getting that stain out, didn’t matter how much scrubbing it took. From there he’d inspect whatever was going on with his face. That didn’t bother him as much. Nothing felt broken, and he knew how to make himself look photo-ready for the match. All the small speed bumps sorted, he’d start in on his match day warmups. Nothing intense, just enough to loosen his muscles up.

His socked foot poked out of the bottom of the blanket. He twisted his ankle experimentally. Slowly, it cranked through the rotations, gummy and awkward like stuck hands on a clock. A lot tighter than it should be. Physios wouldn't be happy with him, but that worry came as an afterthought. He'd play the full ninety. They all knew it.

After warmups, he'd take a shower— His eyes stung, suddenly hot and warm. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. He’d take a shower; do the whole routine. Wasn’t happening again. Loud and clear. From there he’d pop round to Nelson road. Bit early, even for him, but he hoped to catch Ted before the coach got swept up in pressers and the like. He wanted to thank him, properly, for all he’d done to help Jamie and straighten him out over the years. He knew Lasso had a busy schedule and a quick turnaround to get home, and Jamie wouldn’t take up too much of his time. He just- he needed to say it. He had his fingers crossed that it’d be one of their better talks — the kind that left him feeling pleased with himself and a bit like he could float on air — instead of one of the awkward, stilted ones that fizzled out between his fingers and left him feeling wrong-footed and confused, like he'd put his elbows on the table or committed some other social fake paw that he was supposed to know about by now.

But just in case it did go like that, he'd still have said it, and he’d still have left himself plenty of time to screw his head on before the match. He was a professional after all. Give him a few minutes recovery in the storage room that wasn't Higgins' office anymore, and by the time the lads started filtering in, he’d be fine. Then they’d start the real pre-match march. Light workout and pre-game presser. Meal time, then the real warmups, the ones meant to get your blood flowing and your food settled. Cleanup, out of practice kit, into training kit. Let the physios at him again with their magic tape. Into the tunnel to mingle with the reporters: soundbites, heart-warming stories, all the patter ('Why, yes, West Ham has played a strong year, 'course I’ve got my eye on City-always do, don’t I? No I don’t give a flying fuck if Zava’s got a scorpion named after him now, fuck off—") Well hopefully no one’d ask him about Zava. Not a match had passed without some journo brining him up, but maybe the possibility of them winning the league would be enough to shut them up for once, instead of it turning into yet another retrospective on how Zava's head start was the reason the team had made it this far in the rankings. Pricks. Then it’d be speech time. Jamie didn’t understand what it was about gaffers and speeches, but they’d seemed to all agree in their mysterious gaffer ways that it was the one time you were allowed to be emotional in front of the players. Ted usually didn’t have that problem, but he certainly never shied away from the chance to one-up himself with a game day speech. It was sure to be a good one. Then nothing else would matter, cause there’d be the match. Everything made sense on the pitch.

Jamie knew what he had to do on the pitch. Nothing could touch him on the pitch.

No one was ever waiting for him on the pitch. He wondered if they won, if he’d come back to find a message on his phone. He wondered if they lost, if he’d come back to find a message on his phone. He checked his phone again. 3:50am. 6% battery. He turned off the screen and shut his eyes. In ten minutes, he’d get up. Sort out his life. Win the league. In ten minutes. Until then, he’d try to enjoy what he had. Warm blanket. A nice place to sleep. No new messages on his phone. An ankle and a nose that weren’t broken. People who’d welcomed him inside. People who'd forgiven him for his mistakes. It was enough.

He just had to make sure he didn't mess it up.

[independent-variables]

i read To Fight Monsters- during my binge of all your works and it made me finally watch pacific rim.

so thank you for that indirect recommendation. I'm now so intrigued by the concept of drifting and how that affects you and your co-pilot, gonna be thinking about that a lot

EXCELLENT. you are so so welcome, i adore that movie with all my heart, absolute game changer in the giant robots fight giant monsters genre.

drifting is wild to me, part of writing (starting to write) that fic was trying to figure out how drifting would impact daily life. how sharing minds and memories has a lasting impact on literally everything you do.

i know you did not ask for one but here is a snippet dfghjsdfdf

---

Once he starts to… not relax, but not watch himself so closely around Kenobi, he notices how they’ve started to grow into each other. Mannerisms, patterns of movement, sense memories. He says please and thank you automatically and brushes his teeth up and down instead of side to side and the scent of fried fish makes him gag. He wonders if these little changes are going to be a part of him forever. He wonders if he got them from Kenobi or from whoever Kenobi got them from. He wonders, if he traces the line of Kenobi’s mentor’s mentor’s mentor, he’ll eventually find someone who is allergic to fish.

He wonders what little habits Kenobi is picking up from him.

He gets his answer one day on the mats when Kenobi kicks high and almost takes his head off. He lands on his ass, laughing so hard he can hardly breath. Kenobi is doing a very bad job trying to hide his concern as he crouches down and carefully pokes at the swelling on his forearm where he’d barely managed to block in time.

“Oh dear,” he says, so mild and blase it sets Kote off again.

“Well,” Kote says, much later, in medical, with an icepack held gently against what is not a fracture and is thankfully but unpleasantly a bone deep bruise. “I guess I finally get to learn how to defend against my signature move.”

[cpunkwitch]

i seriously over did it my backs in so much pain im on the verge of tears and feeling nausious

i managed to get myself to clean my room a bit plus sweep some of the landing on top of the stairs outside my door, as soon as laid down on my bed my entire spine and muscles just screamed and i couldnt move. i managed to roll over a bit so i could get my charger and my mom could put an icepack under my back

it helped enough i could go back downstairs to put it in the freezer when it melted but im still in so much pain i have no idea what to do

i hate this body so much i cant do shit without being in pain for it and im sick of it

i want to go places and do things without pain

i want an easier way to clean up without feeling like i split my spine apart from the base, i want to be able to walk places without wincing at every step and doubling over or holding back tears while i take a knee or sit somewhere

i want to be able to enter a building without any struggle and not be in pain and suffering for trying to appear like a "normal" abled person at an entrance

i want to be able to take my cane with me without having to stop for a breath and getting stared and and feeling ashamed for the way i am at fucking 20 yours old

i want to be treated like a normal person and allowed to embrace the "freak" i am.

i want to be able to do fucking normal mundane tasks like brushing my teeth, eating or sweeping the floor without being in pain, crying and exhausted afterwards.

if all i had to deal with was my sensory issues, sensitivity to light sound and other stimulation, id pick that. id rather be balled up in a corner hiding my head from the light and suffering a tic attack while hyperventilating than have to struggle to fucking live and keep myself alive and healthy. i dont just want to be barely alive i want to fucking be a thriving happy person like everyone else whos lucky and priviledge enough to in a world built for them instead of me.

i want to see characters who share my life so i know im seen and not alone. i want to be listened to instead of talked over and brushed under the rug.

i want to be comfortable in my own fucking skin

[mania-sama]

post-op day 3 final update: i am just going to jump STRAIGHT into it.

eating!!:

ONE cheese stick

TWO scrambled eggs with cheese

LOTS and LOTS of chocolate and vanilla pudding

ONE small chocolate sonic milkshake

THREE bottles of water

ONE bowl of chocolate ice cream

ONE slice of white bread

ONE cup of kraft mac n' cheese

as you can see, we are EXPANDING!! the cheese stick and bread were both a bit harder to eat than i wished. i think i will be able to complete them with more ease either tomorrow or the next day, but for today, it was slow-going and painful. all of the usual sugary and chocolatey goodness has made its reappearance. god, i didn't think i'd ever say this, but i REALLY just want a fruit right now. but all of that requires me to either open my jaw wider than i can or to actively chew, both of which are really hard for me right now (and is why i struggled so much with the cheese stick and bread, and even though the bread was untoasted, it still was hard to consume).

MY FOOD RECOMMENDATION: the milkshake has been with me through thick and thin so far (and likely will be back tomorrow), but the EGGS. the eggs were so good. it was so nice to have something that wasn't a cold creamy sugary substance. it was actually healthy for me. goodness. the kraft mac n' cheese would be here, but the eggs were made with more love and affection and also tasted better.

more and more water is being added! three bottles is pretty good, though my mouth is perpetually dry and my throat always hurts. i'm just doing all that i can to prevent dry socket. i did attempt brushing my teeth today again, and it went SIGNIFICANTLY better. my mouth actually feels semi-clean this time.

ratings:

pain: 6/10. i actually went a good few hours where i couldn't notice the pain. but when i do notice it, it's there, and it feels the exact same as it did yesterday. however, that timespan without pain is a sign of good things to come. so i am hopeful that tomorrow will bring me less pain and more happiness!

stitches: 5/10. creepy pieces of shit. still don't know what to do about them. but they are there and they are getting freakier by the hour.

icepack: 0/10. didn't wear it a single time. it's the end of the road for it, unfortunately. it did good while i wore it, but i am unfortunately lazy and refuse to put it back on.

swelling: 7.5/10. i am now perpetually swollen. i look like a roblox character. it is painful!

talking: 5/10. it's getting easier, actually, and i attribute that to the further mobility of my mouth. again, i am looking forward to a near, bright future!

overall: 5.5/10. better than yesterday. really happy about the eggs and kraft mac n' cheese, but my goal right now is to be able to comfortably chew a cheese stick. i am expected to return back to functioning society tomorrow, so whether or not i will successful rejoin the living will be determined at 6 am tomorrow morning.

i was absolutely 100% correct in my guess that i would wake up at 3 am in lots of pain. i did. i woke up at 3 am to feeling every single tooth in my mouth in 4K. however, i was able to hold out until 6 am to set myself on the proper timeline for taking my pain medication. it's been pretty good since. eggs went over really well. i caved and ate a cheesestick, which was unfortunately more than i could handle but i forced myself to eat all of it anyway. it took me like three minutes... i had to nibble it.

[nekoramen]

indelible;

kageyama tobio. angst, post-breakup au, timeskip. 1,166 words.

will this be inaccurate to possible canon personalities / schedules / lives of the schweiden adlers? perhaps.

(♫) — being left by zico feat. dvwn

it had been so long since kageyama’s infamous reign at kitagawa first that he’d forgotten the feeling of being left behind. he never imagined that the person who’d remind him of that lonely, numbing void would be you.

kageyama wakes at 5 am. he hasn’t used an alarm in a long while, not since you had moved in with him, but he didn’t bother setting up the clock again after your departure.

at 5:15 he trudges through the kitchen after a quick shower, munches on a banana, and downs a glass of milk. he brushes his teeth and finishes dressing by 5:30, and before he leaves, he lets himself glance at the living room of his apartment.

the sliding door to his balcony is still cracked open just the slightest, and the bouquet remains neatly wrapped on the coffee table, though there are a few new petals on the glass today. the sight outside is nothing to behold, completely absent of any balmy hues when it’s this early. it was dreary that day, too.

finally, he steps outside with his gym bag and makes his way toward the schweiden adlers’ gym. he still hasn’t broken out of the habit of walking down the path you both took on the days that you managed to wake up alongside him—kageyama staying on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road, as always—even if it adds an extra ten minutes for him to get to practice. his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, the tips of his fingers eagerly seeking warmth as his mind turns over the last memory he has of you, frigid and clear.

perhaps he had known that day. he recalls the clench in his stomach when he bought those flowers; when he breathed in their delicate, soothing scent before he turned the handle and walked into your shared apartment; when he gingerly set them down on the table after you’d said your piece and closed the door behind you.

perhaps it’s time to throw them away, he thinks after a shiver and a sneeze. it would be nice to be able to relax on the couch again without something beautiful and bitter within arm’s reach to haunt him.

“kageyama?”

he stops. was he at practice already?

“captain,” kageyama greets his senior standing outside the gymnasium with a bow of his head, the corners of his lips pressed back.

“kageyama,” hirugami repeats sternly and holds up his hand before kageyama could take another step forward. “you’re drenched.”

kageyama’s brows furrow. he looks down and notes the puddle at his feet, then he glances back at the curtain of rain hammering the concrete past the overhang of the gym’s entrance.

“ah,” kageyama says when he turns back to the older man. “i forgot my umbrella. it’s okay, my bag’s waterproof so i’ll just change into my extra clothes.”

hirugami claps a hand on kageyama’s shoulder before he can pass through. kageyama doesn’t glimpse at the captain. “would you please listen to me this time and rest?”

“i’m fine,” kageyama returns immediately, voice soft and almost pleading. he keeps his gaze fixed forward.

hirugami sighs and gives kageyama a final pat on the back before following his junior into the building. “take your time.”

kageyama is on the court and warming up with everyone else within five minutes. some of the adlers send careful glances in their setter’s direction during the drills. the frizzy, dampened locks and atypical practice attire are new; the way the ball’s trajectory increases in power while gradually losing the normally consistent accuracy when under kageyama’s control is, as of late, anything but.

in the locker room after practice, kageyama heaves a long sigh into his towel. everything aches.

“here.”

kageyama uncovers his face to see ushijima with his hand outstretched toward him. he reaches out, the reddened skin of his palm and fingers facing upward, and he intakes a short breath when he feels the sharp bite of an icepack against it.

the two men blink at each other for a moment, warm olive eyes boring steadily into fractured blue irises.

“i don’t know what is the best thing to say,” ushijima says finally, “but i—we are here for you. we’re all family off the court as well.”

kageyama takes in the rest of the room, the onlooking sets of earnest gazes and gentle smiles, and he feels a swelling in his chest. he opens his mouth but his throat is tight, so he musters up the best smile he could to show his gratitude before quickly looking away. the past few days have been more than enough time to get acquainted with the burning sensation in his nose and what would soon follow. but beneath the security and warmth that kageyama’s team blankets over him, today’s cry leaves him feeling a bit lighter.

by the time kageyama arrives at his apartment, it’s well past sunset. he kicks off his shoes, drops his bag, and passes right by the balcony door and wilting bouquet, the plush of his bed welcoming him with open arms. the sky seemed even more inky and endless tonight. when he peered up at it, he tried to remember the stars in your eyes, but each attempt was replaced by the image of your pupils that fateful night. when had they stopped dilating at him? when had you begun looking at him no different from when you’re reading the paper, or sitting in traffic, or cleaning your car?

when had you stopped loving him?

for the umpteenth time, kageyama can’t seem to pinpoint the exact moment he stopped being special to you. so once again, at precisely 9:30 pm, he scrolls through your past texts and listens to old voicemails. at 10:15, he clicks the power button on his phone and sets it aside, his eyes puffy and tired. a whisper of a chilly breeze from the balcony settles against the stinging warmth of his cheeks, but like the past few days, he doesn’t bother to get up and close the door or grab another blanket. maybe a part of him believes that if he gets sick, then he’ll wake up to you, just like that one time when you had gazed down at him so fondly with a smirk on your lips and a mug of hot milk on the nightstand.

yet he knows it’s nothing but a dream.

kageyama lies in the middle of the bed and spreads his limbs out in an effort to make the space seem even the slightest bit less empty. as he closes his eyes, he wills himself to quell the memories of unfinished plans and finite promises, at least enough to keep the sob in his throat at bay.

at 10:45, kageyama finally succumbs to the night as he pretends that the comforting voice in his mind that says he’ll be okay isn’t yours.

[tomsrebeleyebrow]

Tom getting kicked in his balls by his child and he tries to act brace but runs inside and you give him an icepack😂

A/N: oh my, I had so much fun writing this! 😂😂😂 and i clearly was in a dad!tom mood today soooo enjoy this one! thanks for the request, nonnie and as always stay safe 💖💗

‘Stay safe, Cheer up’ blurb event

“Alright Nathan, grab firmly onto the bat like this” said Tom behind his four-year-old son, trying to adjust his posture. “Great, now lift your elbow a bit- there you go, buddy!”

Meanwhile you were in the kitchen, preparing lunch and watching your two boys messing around in the backyard of the house. After “teaching” little Nat the basics of soccer, Tom wanted to try baseball as you convinced your husband to put any golf related things aside for a bit (but also for your own sanity).

“Now, imagine someone’s throwing a ball at you” explained Tom, gently holding Nathan’s little arm with both hands.

The little boy stared at his dad, carefully listening to him while sticking his tongue out just like him when he was concentrating. Nathan was the spitting image of Tom but with your eyes, a clever and beautiful mix of wild brown curls with big (e/c) eyes and long eyelashes that made you and Tom (and pretty much anyone else) go soft for the little boy. God you loved your son so much, and now you couldn’t help but be scared about him getting hurt. At least, Tom was there to supervise. Kinda.

“When the ball’s coming at you, you get warmed up to hit it with the bat like this.”

Tom showed Nathan the right motion to do by stepping behind him, gently making the boy swing the bat to the back, before bringing it to the front to hit the imaginary ball. He did the same move a few times, getting it quite fast and winning the approval of his dad. You smiled at how invested your little boy was and so decided to prepare more side dishes to reward him.

“You definitely got the move, Nat!” proudly said Tom, “okay now, show me by yourse-”

As Tom was stepping backward to give his son some more space, Nathan apparently got too excited and didn’t wait enough as the top of the bat made direct contact into Tom’s family jewels. The impact cut Tom’s breath instantly, making him bite his tongue at the same time as every muscles in his body contracted, all nerves sending distress messages to his brain.

“Did I do good, daddy?” Nathan’s soft voice asked, the little boy lowering the bat as he turns towards his father.

Tom’s face was as red as a tomato, his teeth biting into his bottom lips hoping to suppress some pain by creation another one. His eyes screaming pain then focused on his son who was obviously waiting for his answer, and maybe wondering why his dad was making such a funny face.

“Y-You did g-good, b-buddy!” exhaled Tom in one breath, a smile way too wide to be natural but Nathan didn’t seem to notice.

“K-Keep practising a b-bit, d-dad’s comin’ back q-quick!”

Not wasting another second of suffering, the brunette rushed through the garden to then enter the kitchen you were in. Hearing him getting close, you turned to propose him and your son some water but just stopped when you saw your husband’s face.

“Are you alright, Tom?” you asked while approaching him with a confused look as his breathing was getting quite loud and pained, like the unusual redness of his entire face.

Tom raised a hand in front of him, slowly catching his breath as much as possible, before gathering enough strength to talk properly.

“I-I’m… okay, love. I-I think…?”

Then your eyes fell lower and noticed how his other hand was firmly covering his private parts. You frowned, getting even more confused before Tom interrupted your thoughts.

“C-Can you please give me an ice pack, darling? Nat hit me in the balls pretty hard a-and I was not expecting our son to be that strong…”

Then all dots connected. And you couldn’t help the laugh escaping your lips, a loud one that actually brought tears at the corner of your eyes. What a blast.

“D-Darling please, the ice pack!!” whined Tom as he leaned on the wall to rest a little.

You slowly calmed down and went to take an ice pack out of the fridge for your husband, whom modesty had suffered enough. Once you helped him sit on a chair, you remembered Nathan was still outside by himself so you walked to the window to see if he was doing fine. And he definitely was, as you watched your little boy running around the yard still holding the bat, swinging it to chase some monsters or villains like he liked to do.

“I’m glad I’ve got you pregnant before this happens” laughed Tom, still holding the ice pack between his legs, the thump slightly becoming a bit swollen.

You turned to face your husband with a fake shocked expression, hands resting on your hips while you made your way towards him.

“Being cheeky, Holland?” you challenged him, raising an eyebrow followed with a smirk. “Careful, I now know a way to scare your male chauvinism away...”

“Jeez woman, ‘mini Tom’ and my sperm cells suffered enough already” chuckled Tom before sliding his free arm around your waist.

He brought you closer and kissed your belly, well your now three-month pregnant belly that will protect your second child for another six months or so. Tom then nuzzled his face against it like a cat, which made you giggle, content. You slid your fingers through his brown locks, brushing some hair back. Then you heard little footsteps coming your way.

“Mama?”

You saw Nathan appearing from the corner of the room, his hands now free from the bat. Tom didn’t move from his spot but followed the sound of Nathan’s voice.

“Where’s papa?”

“Daddy got a bit hot outside and needed to rest a little” you gently replied, smiling at your son’s understanding expression.

“Dad’s doing super fine” Tom added with a huge smile, trying to hide the ice pack he was still pressing against his crotch. “Alright, taking a break from your baseball training. Time to get some lunch, buddy!”

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[brandyllyn]

War makes thieves, and peace hangs them (pt7)

Told from POV of Triple Frontier characters and while it’s an OFC she is never described. Her “name” is a radio handle. So it could be you…

Chapter 7: Pope and Wildcat are both pissed off at each other. There are probably better ways to deal with that than they choose.

(Santiago Garcia x Reader)

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 2600. Read it on AO3.

Rating: NC-17 (Hella Explicit) violence. fighting kink. probably BDSM to be honest. bondage again. use of safe words. PiV sex.

"What do you mean we can’t sell them?"

Santi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were crowded into Ben’s room again, computer open on the bed by his hip with the plans they had stolen. Frankie was nursing a black eye and refusing to talk to anyone about what happened. Thus far, Santi has been too pissed off to push.

"Don’t be a dumbass Benny," Wildcat’s voice. He studiously avoids looking at her. "Do you know how much diamonds are actually worth?"

"When I was looking at rings for my last girl I know they cost a shitload," Ben bites back. "And you even said that was fifty kay worth."

"To the right buyer, yeah. Do you happen to have an in on the diamond market?" Ben doesn’t answer and she goes on. "Ironhead? Fish? Po- No one? Then yeah, these are basically worthless for cash." She picks a few up and he can see her hand move in the corner of his vision. "The only person I know of might offer about ten grand for the bunch. If we’re lucky." She sighs and lets them fall back to the bed in a shower of sparkles. "We’re better off dividing them up and y’all making jewelry for your moms. Wives. Whatever."

He glances her way at that but she’s as studiously avoiding looking at him as he is at her.

"Fuck," Ben mutters.

"That’s not the problem," Santi breaks in to the conversation. "The problem is that was a shitshow back there. What the fuck happened. Fish?"

Frankie looks up and lowers the icepack from his eye. "Some pendejo wanted to start a fight with me. Caught me right as we were wrapping up. I had a crowd, couldn’t get away."

"Why the fuck was someone starting a fight with you?" This from Will, another person Santi had been avoiding looking at.

Frankie hesitates then raises the icepack up again. "I don’t fucking know man. Didn’t like my face?"

"And you two?" Santi turns his gaze on Will who meets his eyes from beneath lowered brows. "What happened to the revised extraction? You fucking went off-book."

Will points at Wildcat and Santi can hear her sigh before she says, "There were two pain points. One I saw in the house, the other on the street. I improvised."

"You improvised?" He turns on her now.

"Yeah, I improvised." She crosses her arms and doesn’t break eye contact with him. "Your intel on the house was off, there was no way I was getting into the safe room and out without someone knowing so I left a trail. Took some stones. They needed a reason and I gave them one."

"And that stunt on the street?" he keeps his voice level. Calm.

"If the mark realized he didn’t have his keys it would have also blown it. So I put them back when I snatched his watch."

He narrows his eyes, thinking. Then he nods. "I don’t like it. It’s too messy. But we’ll have to wait and see if it worked." She nods back and the tension in the room seems to go down a notch. "Now about after…"

"Whoa," Will raises a hand up, pushing off from the wall with the other. "Look, we got away. We didn’t get shot. And we got the data. I think we can call that a win and be done for tonight. I’m getting a beer. Ben?"

Ben shoots a glance among them and then nods following Will from the room, Frankie follows close behind. Wildcat tails them and then raises a questioning eyebrow back at him.

Santi shuts the computer, coming to his feet. "You," he points at her, "with me."

He’s halfway down the hall before it occurs to him that maybe his hotel room isn’t the best place for this conversation. But he’s too keyed up to think of another, his anger roiling just below the surface.

"Are you going to talk to me?" She asks from over his shoulder and he doesn’t turn around, just lets his long stride eat up the ground to his door.

"I’ll talk to you in fucking private."

"You’re pissed at me?" She sounds incredulous. "I don’t believe this. You’re pissed at me."

"You’re goddamn right I am," he turns on her, sees her take a step back. "You planning on just fucking your way through my team? Benny’s the only one left, but then again you already know each other don’t you?"

If he’d been even the tiniest bit less mad he’d have seen it coming. That’s what he tells himself anyway. He would have seen her move before she was on him, digging her fingers into the pressure point under his arm and forcing him back against the wall with her other hand digging into his carotid artery.

"Listen to me you son of a bitch," she bites every word off, fingers pushing upwards until he’s on tiptoe to get away from it. "For the last time, I never fucked Frankie. And I didn’t fuck Will. And I don’t really have any interest in fucking Benny to be honest. But if I wanted to you’d have no right to stop me. Or to be a fucking ass about it."

She releases him and steps back in one motion, brushing her hair away from her face. She’s pissed. He can tell that much. Her chest heaving, her jaw tense. Her nostrils are flared and he’d bet fifty grand in diamonds that her heartbeat was well over a hundred beats per minute. He doesn’t even think. Just reaches out and grabs her by the shirtfront, searching behind him for the door handle with his other hand. Hauling her to him until their mouths clash together and he pulls her back into his room, kicking the door shut.

Her nails rake down his neck and he flinches, pulling away from her and grabbing her hand with one of his. Holding her wrist in a too-tight grip. Her arm flexes, curves, and then she’s digging her fingers into the muscles of his bicep and he grimaces at the pain but refuses to move where she pushes. He takes her by the throat instead, pushing her to the wall and kissing her again. Feels her tongue move against his. The soft choke of her breath when he presses her windpipe. She doesn’t release his muscle, just skims her other hand into his hair and pulls hard. The full body shiver that induces nearly makes his knees give out.

It’s the work of a moment to kick her feet apart, to shove his knee between her thighs. She bites at him and he groans at the sharp sting of it. The hand on his bicep moves up to his shoulder and she hoists herself upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. He drops one hand under her ass to hold her steady, keeping the other pressed to her throat.

"You don’t want Frankie to fuck you," he growls into her mouth. "And you don’t want Will to fuck you, or Benny." His teeth catch her lower lip and he pulls, feeling the flesh stretch and slide before releasing. He presses harder to her neck, "Just who do you want to fuck you?"

It was his fault, really, for thinking he was in control. For thinking that there was any part of this where he had the upper hand. She reaches up and grips his forearm, using it for leverage as she twists her body and the next thing he knows she’s upside down with her thighs around his head and he’s flipping forward into the air. He lands on his back with a heavy thud, air rushing out of him in a whoosh. He’d have been worried about head trauma but she still has her thighs wrapped tight around him and he’s not sure he’s getting enough oxygen to worry about a concussion. He wrenches a hand between his neck and her thigh, giving himself a gasp of air before she tightens her hold and he sees stars.

"You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that Pope?" she’s growling, holding one of his hands above his head and bending it an angle he’s not particularly fond of. "I offer myself to you on a fucking silver platter and this is what I get? Petty jealousy? Some big man feelings? Grow the fuck up." She pulls on his arm again and Santi is done.

She’s not in it to kill him, he’s counting on that. So when he flips his legs up and over he relies on the fact that she’ll release his head rather than risk breaking his neck. Thankfully he’s right and she does. His knee lands on her chest, knocking the air out of her. He feels a little bad about it but the quick kidney punch she gives him drives any apology straight out of his head. She wraps one arm around his thigh but he’s faster - has the advantage of knowing what he’s going to do in advance and he shifts his weight to his other knee and flips her over.

Now he’s got a knee on the center of her back, jerking her arms behind her and holding them up by her shoulder blades. It is not a comfortable position, he can see her trying to bow her back to relieve the pressure on her arms, but he presses more of his weight down.

"Now listen to me kitten-" His words are cut off and his vision goes white for a second. She fucking kicked him in the back of the head. How the hell had she done that? How fucking flexible was this woman? He ducks to the side just in time, her boots closing uselessly on the air where his neck had been. He shifts to the side, one knee still on her back, the other on her wrists. Where he can keep an eye on her legs. He puts his full weight on her, only letting up when he can hear her straining to breathe.

"Now," he runs one hand through his hair, catching his breath, "let’s talk about this silver platter."

"Fuck you," she wheezes.

"I am really hoping for that, yes," he replies good-naturedly, staring down at her body. He glances around the room. His flexi-cuffs are on the other side of the bed with the rest of his gear. Belt it is again then.

It’s a lot harder when she’s not cooperating, nor does it help that the belt doesn’t want to stay taut. He holds it with one hand as he moves off of her, using his grip to steady her and supporting under her elbow with the other. He brings her to her knees first, then raises her to her feet. "Alright kitten," he starts but she turns on him. Reflexively his hand tightens on the belt and he can see the flash of pain cross her face as her shoulders are pulled. But then she fucking head-butts him and all bets are off.

He kicks one of her feet out from under her, tossing her to the bed when she loses her balance and following her down, knee once again pressed to her back. He jerks at her pants with his free hand, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees, then past them to pool around her ankles. Reaching between her thighs he groans at how slick and wet she is, pushing two fingers roughly inside her.

"Do you remember my name?" It’s the only check-in he’s going to give her. He presses his fingers up inside her. Feels her clench, her body shudder. "What’s my name?"

"Santiago," she groans and he pulls her up to her knees.

"Anything else?"

"Just. Fucking. Santiago."

It’s enough. He holds his belt in one hand, twisting the leather so it’s tight on her wrists and releasing his cock with his other hand. A condom from his pocket which he awkwardly puts on and then he pushes himself inside her and doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed to her ass. He doesn’t give her time to think, time to get used to him. Just pulls out and thrusts back into her. Setting a brutal pace that makes his toes curl.

But it must be doing something for her because she’s crying out, face twisted somewhere between pain and pleasure. She’s trying to adjust her position and he leans forward, over her back, capturing her bound hands between their bodies. Now he can press one fist to the comforter by her face, slide his other around her body and search through her slick folds until he finds her clit. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stroke it gently. Just pinches it and rolls it between two fingers and she fucking comes instantly.

He can barely keep fucking her through it. Her body is so tight as she fights for her own pleasure. He can feel the roaring in his ears, the way his balls draw up and then he’s cursing, pulling out and jerking the condom off so he can come on her. Watch it pool against the exposed skin of her lower back, the pattern of it against her shirt, the sticky ropes that go all the way down to drip off her fingertips. He’s shaking, cock in his hand, still leaning over her, trying to catch his breath. He can see a bead of sweat drop from his brow to her shoulder.

She shudders and he sees the flash of pain on her face. The twist of her shoulder and he curses, reaching for the belt on her wrists and releasing it, massaging her arms as she slowly lowers them down to the bed. She gathers them under her, using them for leverage to hoist her body forward until she’s flat on her stomach. Her pants are still around her ankles, her shirt rucked up and his cum slowly drying on her skin and fuck if it’s not the sexiest goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

He twists off the bed, staggering a little as his legs fight to support him. He’s getting fucking old. He drags himself into the bathroom, taking care of the condom and washing his hands before wetting a washcloth. He catches sight of himself in the mirror - can see a bruise forming on his chin from where she head-butted him. Well, that will be a fun story to tell tomorrow.

He walks back out and has to bite back a smile. She hasn’t moved so much as an inch. Doesn’t even when the bed dips down and he slowly wipes his cum off her ass, reaching up under her shirt to wipe her down and then gently pulling her arms from under her one by one to clean each finger meticulously.

"Are we ever going to figure out how to fuck like normal people?" The words are more rhetorical than anything and he doesn’t really expect her to answer.

She does anyway of course, mumbling into the pillow, "Seems overrated."

He laughs, tossing the washcloth into a corner. "Pants on or off?"

"Am I staying?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "Yes. Pants on or off?"

"Off."

He pulls her boots off, then her pants, sliding her panties back up at her direction. He loans her one of his shirts and she manages to sit up long enough to trade her cum-stained one for his. He strips down to his briefs and slides under the sheets, holding them up with one arm out, beckoning her into his embrace. He can see her reticence but he just cocks and eyebrow and she rolls her eyes as she slides in next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t willing to break your neck," she mumbles.

He chuckles, stroking one hand down her arm. Her pillow talk needed some work but he could help with that.

Pt8

[imagineaworlds]

I Love You (Part Fifty-Three) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Talk of PTSD, hostage situation, shooting, murder, bombing, physical trauma. I’m pretty sure that’s it!

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 7900

Timeline: Season 7 Episodes 24. Right after part fifty-two.

Criminal Minds Discord Server

As the sun began to set, a specialist came back in with my release form for Hotch to fill out while he talked to me about what the next steps for my recovery were. While Hotch worked on the form, we both listened to the endless number of rules I had to follow. They were giving me top notch pain killers to help with the inevitable constant pain I’d feel after the hospital’s morphine would wear off. I had to take two in the morning, two in the afternoon, and two before bed. I wasn’t allowed to take them on an empty stomach, and I wasn’t allowed to have alcohol at all— no cheating. After running us through the medication rules, the doctor handed me a piece of paper he ripped out of his notepad. I read the name, the phone number, and the address on it while he explained that it was the information of the best physical therapist in the state. He told me that if I were ever going to get better, then I needed to see him sooner than later. The longer I waited to seek out the proper help, or the longer I pushed myself without guidance, the higher the chances got of me fucking my back up forever.

“That isn’t to say that you can’t walk around at all,” the doctor backpedaled for a moment. “In fact, you should try walking around every thirty minutes or so. You can go up and down stairs, you can pace around the house, you can go on walks in the park. But no running, jumping, bending, strenuous exercises, bike riding— anything like that. The point is that you can do the bear minimum so that your back can start the healing process. If you ever start to feel the pain again, it means that you need to stop what you’re doing. You need to go lie down, put ice on your back, and relax. The ice will help with the pain and swelling.” The doctor turned to Hotch, “Your job over the next few months, Mr. Hotchner, is to make sure that they’re not pushing themself at all. If you notice that they’re trying to do something that they shouldn’t be doing, you need to stop them. Unfortunately, it’s going to feel like babysitting,” he addressed both of us, “but it’s for the best.”

Hotch’s phone started ringing. He apologized profusely while trying to dig it out of his back pocket. The doctor and I watched as Hotch stood, put the form down on his chair behind him, and hurried out of the room to take the call.

The doctor turned back to me. “Painkillers, rest, ice, walking occasionally. Got it?”

I nodded.

“That was Rossi,” Hotch explained, returning from the hallway. “Will and JJ are getting married at his place tomorrow night, apparently.”

My face brightened. I thought to myself, finally… The two of them had been together forever. I always figured that they would have gotten married before me and Hotch, but they had been holding off for some reason. Despite having Henry and being entirely devoted to one another, it took them forever to finally do it. I mean, the decision probably came with the aftershock of the day they just had, but still. This was great news—news that we needed when everything else seemed so shit.

“I want to go,” I insisted.

Hotch’s attention turned to the doctor. “What do you think?”

The doctor shrugged slightly. “I think it’s fine as long as you keep up with the medication, stay away from the champagne, and don’t attempt to do any splits on the dance floor.”

The three of us chuckled.

----

When we got home, Hotch helped me up the steps to the porch, then hurried to open the door for me. Just as we saw the living room, I caught a glimpse of Jessica and Jack on the couch, watching a movie together. I smiled. Home. I survived all that shit with The Face Cards just to come home, and I had never been more relieved in my life. As we stepped inside, I looked over at Scarlet’s bouncer to see that it was empty. She must have been asleep upstairs already.

“Mom! Dad!” Jack cheered as he pushed himself off the couch and sprinted over to us.

I crouched down as far as I could go and pulled him in for a tight hug, trying to lift him off the ground somewhat so that I could swing him around. I cringed slightly at the pain shooting down my back, but tried to hide it so that none of them could notice. Hotch was watching me like a hawk, though. My change in posture, my wincing face, and the groan that left my throat as I struggled to pick up Jack, all of that was apparent to Hotch. It wasn’t going to be easy trying to convince him that I was alright. Now I understood why he was always so annoyed with me after New York and Foyet.

“Be careful, bud,” Hotch warned. “Mom hurt their back at work today.”

Jack looked at me as I let him sit on my thigh as I stayed crouched. His index finger curled a strand of my hair loosely. “Are you okay?” he asked worriedly.

I nodded. “I’m okay, little man. I promise. How was your day with Aunt Jessica?”

“We went on a bike ride, then we played soccer with Scarlet—”

“Did you win?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of course!”

“Good job, little man.”

“Aunt Jessica took us for ice cream.”

I squinted at her, but she was laughing and hiding behind a pillow in order to avoid my playful glare. I looked back at Jack. “What flavor did you get?”

“Chocolate fudge.”

“Of course you did.” I kissed his cheek and stood up straight as slowly as I could, reaching for Hotch’s help when I felt my back sting again. I whimpered. He stepped closer to me and kissed my temple to comfort me. “Hey, Jack, Henry’s parents are getting married tomorrow. Do you wanna go with us?”

“Do I get to play with Henry?”

“Duh.”

“Yay!” He jumped forward to hug my legs. I was going to take that as a yes, then.

“Did you guys have anything besides ice cream for dinner?” Hotch asked, but it was more directed to Jessica than Jack.

She nodded. “I took them to Olive Garden.”

Hotch ruffled Jack’s hair. “Spoiled kid.” Well, that was what he deserved, considering we got called away for work at the last second on a weekend, as usual. “Why don’t you go upstairs and start getting ready for bed, bud.” Jack released me and immediately started running for the stairs. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” He kept running, though, pretending like he didn’t hear his dad. Really spoiled kid. Hotch dug his wallet out and pulled out some money for Jessica. “I’m so sorry again for today—”

“When will the two of you get it?” She laughed while standing up, gathering her things. “It’s okay!” She walked around the couch. “I love spending time with my niece and nephew. It’s not a job. It’s a chance to help them grow up.” She took Hotch’s money, but then quickly stuck it in his back pocket before he could catch her. “No money, no apologies.” She glanced at how I was leaning on Hotch to offset the chronic pain that was fucking killing me. “You okay?”

“Rough day,” I answered.

She threw her arms around me for a gentle hug. “Call me if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, Jess.”

“I’ll see you guys soon.” She parted from me and headed for the door. “No money, Aaron!” She closed the door behind herself.

“That woman’s a saint,” I told Hotch, walking with him through the house. “We don’t deserve her.”

“No, we do not.”

When Hotch and I headed upstairs, he held onto my hand, his other arm wrapped around my waist so that he could keep me steady as we carefully made our way up one step at a time. He was hovering too much. I was completely capable of making it up the freaking stairs myself, yet he wasn’t going anywhere. So, I just gave in. I let him corral me up each step and through the hallway, all the way down to our bedroom where he helped me lay down on the bed. He lifted my feet up slowly.

“Baby,” I whispered, catching his attention. He looked so worried, as if he had done something wrong or hurt me, which he hadn’t. I smirked at him. “I’m okay.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes at me before standing up straight and moving towards the closet to grab a few extra pillows for me. He slid one under my knees, two under my ankles, and he left a third next to me in case I wanted it for something else. When I was drowning in pillows, he hurried back downstairs to make sure that there was ice if I needed it. We were getting an ice machine that just needed cold water to make it run, but that wasn’t going to show up for at least another few days, so he was going to have to run to and from the kitchen every time I was in pain and needed ice on my back.

“Here, baby,” he whispered, helping me adjust so that we could get the icepack under my back. He kissed my temple. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He kissed me again, recognizing that I was just being playful. After a moment of standing at my side, Hotch remembered that he had to get my medication around, so he hurried over to the bag on the dresser and started sorting all of the pills. I watched him carefully. I wondered if he was going to actually keep this up for the next few months or if he was going to forget about our deal back at the hospital and just let me back into the field once I was feeling a bit better. Could he really afford to keep an agent benched for months? I mean, we were barely holding on when he was gone in the Middle East and Emily was still… I don’t know… dead? Sure.

“You know, at some point, you’re going to have to realize that I’m not entirely bedridden. I’m going to have to leave the bedroom sooner than later.”

Hotch glanced over his shoulder and glared at me. “I will tie you to the bed, if it’s the only thing that will keep you there.”

“That’s less of a threat than you had intended for it to be,” I teased.

“Ha. Ha,” he said plainly. I chuckled in response. “Take these,” he told me, turning from the dresser to give me my medication. “I’ll get you some water.” He skipped to the bathroom, and I heard the sink run for a bit before he returned and handed me a half-full glass. He sat on the edge of the bed as I popped the pills and chased them down with the water.

“Tada.”

“You’re sure about going to the wedding tomorrow?” he asked, taking the cup back.

I furrowed my brows. “Of course.”

“I’m worried that your back—”

“Aaron, I’m going to be fine.”

“I said that after New York, too.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I actually believe it.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know it’s my job to worry about you, my love.”

“I know,” I accepted, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I know. But, my love,” I teased back, “I can go to a wedding, and I promise I won’t break. I’ve already agreed to staying out of the field until I’m better, so just let me have this one.”

He huffed at the fact that he wasn’t going to win this argument before getting up to put the glass back in the bathroom, then head to grab our pajamas. He helped me out of my gross, dusty clothes and into his clean, cologne smelling sweatshirt and blue flannel pajama pants. I immediately felt cozy and relaxed. When Hotch tore off his shirt, I could tell that he was considering taking a shower, but he looked so tired, and he seemed desperate to stay at my side.

“It can wait ‘til morning.” He changed into his grey sweatpants then snuck into bed with me. He sighed. “I say we stay here for the rest of our lives.”

I nodded. “I agree.” We reached for each other’s hands, and I tugged to try to kiss his knuckles, but he beat me to it. “Sap.”

“Yup.”

We both stared up at the ceiling. We were silent, both of us just catching our breath, reflecting on the day. I could have lost him again. He could have lost me again. At what point was it going to get too scary and we would finally call it? I wasn’t ready to leave the field yet, and I was sure that he felt the same way, too, but it was something that we had to consider. I mean, we had to retire at some point. Right? We couldn’t do this forever…

----

The following evening was the wedding. Hotch spent the afternoon helping Jack get ready—making sure he actually showered, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and picked out an appropriate outfit. Towards the time when we were about to leave, I caught Hotch kneeling in front of Jack, teaching him how to properly put on a tie. I smirked and continued to spy into the room. I had a bad habit of eavesdropping on them, but who could blame me when those moments weren’t going to last forever? Before we would know it, Jack would be all grown up and heading off for college, and we weren’t going to get any daily memories at all. I had to make them count while I still could.

As for Hotch and I getting ready, I took longer than he did. Considering I was somewhat immobile, I spent most of my time going between getting ready and laying down with an icepack when Hotch wasn’t looking. I was wearing a pant suit, something simple and light. Easy to get on and off. I barely even bothered with makeup because it hurt too much to hold still while trying to get everything perfect, and I just kept my hair out of my face. Nothing too fancy. As for Hotch… I wasn’t sure if he understood that a few years ago, he would have worn a work suit or that brown quarter zip to the wedding, but this time around he was wearing a well fitted all black suit, and all I wanted to do was literally jump him. Every time I saw him walking around wearing just the dress shirt and pants—no jacket yet, I could see his muscles and abs, and I wanted nothing more than to just have him pin me down and fuck me. Fuck. It was weird to think how when I was told to not do something, I suddenly wanted to do it. Specifically, I wanted to do him. I supposed that was just the brat in me, though.

Before we were about to leave, I went to go check on Scarlet in her nursery real quick when I noticed that it was a total mess with all of the toys scattered around. I groaned quietly as I bent over to grab her koala stuffed animal off the floor. It hurt like a total bitch, and there was no good way to go about doing it besides making sure I went slow and easy. As I carefully stood back up, screwing my eyes shut and wincing at the pain on my lower back as I did so, Scarlet cooed in her crib. I tried to smile while holding my back with one hand and her toy in the other. She was staring up at me, waiting for me to pick her up or give her the toy— either way, she would have been content.

“Y/N,” Hotch whispered from the doorway, making me jump in my own skin.

I caught my heart as I turned to glare at him for scaring me. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

“Hotch—” I knew what he was going to say. I knew that he was going to give me a talk about how I needed to be more careful than I was being, but I really didn’t want to hear it, not for the hundredth time, at least. I was sick of people telling me what I could and couldn’t do. I could afford to clean up my kid’s room, alright. That wasn’t going to break my back. “It’s fine.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but both of us fell into silence when we heard: “Mama” come from Scarlet’s crib. I froze in place, thinking about what could have possibly just happened. Maybe I misheard, or maybe Jack was calling for me from downstairs, or maybe he was watching TV and they said it, or—

“Mama,” I heard it again, snapping my attention to the crib. Scarlet was still smiling— almost giggling, actually— and she was dancing around on her feet. “Mama.”

“Aaron…” I mumbled, too scared to move a muscle, thinking that if I did, she’d stop saying anything. Hotch took careful steps towards me, also trying to not startle her. “Did she—”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered back.

“Mama!” She did a “grabby-grab” gesture with her hands, reaching out for the koala toy that I was still holding.

Finally, a year old, she was finally talking, and of course her first word had to be just for me. Morgan wouldn’t believe it. I mean, statistically speaking—at least, according to Spencer—Scarlet was a late bloomer when it came to walking and talking, but she wasn’t entirely behind the curve either. Just yesterday, I had been thinking about how I couldn’t wait until she would start talking. How the fuck did she know?

I did a little dance, too, before handing her the toy. She fell onto her butt and gave the koala a Superman hug. Hotch and I chuckled at the same time. Mama. Yeah, I’d take that. I kind of wished we got it on camera or something, but I think it was better that it was in the moment and that Hotch and I were both there, taken aback by how shocking it was when it came out of the blue. My perfect lil’ bug… I laughed again.

----

“Uh oh, trouble just walked in!” Morgan cheered from the living room as we walked into Rossi’s house, the door having been left open for all of the guests. Emily and Garcia turned to see who he was talking about, and they all smiled when their gaze met me, Hotch, and Jack. “Where’s my goddaughter?” he inquired, walking over to me.

I rolled my eyes as he kissed my cheek and I hugged him. “Jessica’s watching her.” I turned and hugged Emily. “No more almost dying,” I whispered in her ear. “We need you here.”

She smiled shortly as we parted but didn’t say anything. As I hugged Garcia next, Morgan crouched down to talk to Jack. They were talking about the chocolate fountain that was in the dining room, and the next thing I knew, the two of them were running off together to go take a look at it. Garcia and I laughed before she insisted that she should go keep an eye on Morgan.

I turned to Hotch. “I am not responsible for his sugar high this time. You’re on your own, Agent Hotchner.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to his side. “I should go find Rossi and thank him for inviting us,” I told him quietly as he kissed my neck.

“No alcohol,” he warned.

“Yes, Sir,” I saluted to make my comment look innocent to Emily, though it was anything but innocent to Hotch. After I pecked his lips with a grinning kiss, I snuck out of Hotch’s arms and headed to the backyard so that he and Emily could talk since he said that she was acting off.

As I was wandering around in search for Rossi, I discovered that he was nowhere to be found. Somehow, our host for the evening had completely vanished. I shook my head. Well, I’d find him later, I supposed, and maybe Hotch would be free then to thank him, too. So, for now, I tapped Anderson’s shoulder, catching his attention, and I asked if he had seen Morgan around since I spotted Jack running around in the backyard with Henry, which meant that Morgan had disappeared somewhere.

Anderson pointed me in the direction of one of the rooms on the first floor that was acting as a coat room for the night. I thanked him with a smile. He waved me goodbye before taking his girlfriend Angelica’s hand and leading her outside to go meet everyone. It was so funny to see him with her because they reminded me so much of how Hotch and I used to be when we first started going out, and we were just so naïve, hands all over each other all the time, smiles constantly plastered to our faces, no problems between us yet. Life used to be so simple. Hopefully Anderson and Angelica wouldn’t get as complicated as Hotch and I were.

When I stepped into the temporary coatroom, I found Morgan hiding in the corner, sitting on a leather footstool, drinking a cup of scotch. He spotted me and forced a smile onto his face. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hey.”

“How are you doing?”

I sighed heavily, taking a seat beside him. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about me shooting you or Rossi for getting on my ass about not leaving the bank for the hospital the other day.” He furrowed his brows. “I’m leaning more towards shooting Spencer or Hotch are this point.”

Morgan chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no freakin’ idea. And I can’t even drink it all away because of the painkillers. So. Yay me.” I rolled my eyes.

Morgan didn’t respond, though, which was concerning. I half expected him to back up Hotch and Spencer, or maybe say something snarky about he was glad to be rid of me for a few months until the doctors could clear me again. But nothing. Even his smile faded into the unnatural silence between us.

My eyes pouted as I put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugged my touch away, which also wasn’t like him. “Nothing.”

Oh, yeah. Sure. Nothing. Recently, Morgan had a terrible habit of pushing everyone away because he thought that it would somehow protect us, but all it was doing was hurting everyone involved. He knew that he could tell me anything and I would always understand. He knew that I would always stand by his side and back him up, no matter what. So why was he so afraid to open up to me recently? Had I done something to break his trust in me? Was I somehow involved in this secret he was keeping? I just wanted him to give me some kind of answer so that I could stop worrying about him for once.

He sighed when he saw my mind churning. “I can’t tell you what’s going on because it’s not my secret to share. Is that okay?”

I nodded. “If that’s the case, then I won’t pry. But… I’m always here to talk, Derek. Always.” I tried to lighten the mood by joking, “Especially since I can’t go anywhere anymore.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Silence settled for a bit as both of our chuckles faded. Now, we were just staring at the wall together. There had to be something more for us to say, something that would lift his spirits. Oh—

“Scar said her first word today,” I admitted, biting back a smile because I knew that it would cheer Morgan up to hear the good news.

Morgan looked up at me, shock mixed with excitement washing over his face. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Who won?”

“I did,” I smiled. He groaned, rolled his eyes, and dug into his back pocket for his wallet. I grinned as he gave me a ten dollar bill reluctantly. “Sucker.”

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding,” someone said from the door. Morgan and I both glanced up guiltily, as if we were two teenagers who got caught smoking pot at prom or something. It was just Hotch, though. Actually, no, that was too nonchalant for referencing him. It was Hotch, yeah, but he did, in fact, look like a stern and disappointed principle who had caught up smoking pot at prom. “I’ve been looking around for you.” He looked directly at Morgan to ask, “Have they been drinking?”

“Nope. They’ve been doing a lot of complaining about not drinking, though.”

Morgan poked my side, laughing at me in a teasing way, skipping towards the door, barely dodging around Hotch in time. He sent me a thumbs up for good luck. I groaned and hit my head against the wall behind me, looking at my husband out the corner of my eye as he took Morgan’s spot beside me.

“If it weren’t for your back, I’d have you over my knee right now for breaking the rules,” Hotch whispered in my ear.

I gulped. The idea sounded so appealing. I wanted nothing more than for life to just get back to how it was. I didn’t want Hotch to be scared to touch me, or to kiss me, hold me, fuck me. The next few months were going to be excruciatingly long without being able to have all of him. I was so fucking pissed.

“Mmm… and what if I were to be good for you right now…” I tried playing with him, sneaking my hand onto his thigh, making an attempt to work my way upwards towards his crotch, but he snatched my hand away. “Please, Sir. Something.”

“You behave, take all of your meds, work on getting better, then I’ll consider it—But only after the doctors say we can.”

“Come on, baby,” I pleaded with a pout. “We don’t need doctors to tell us how to be us…” I tried putting my hand on his thigh again, but he kept me away. “Aaron, I’m not going to break.” I instead moved my hand to his cheek. “I love you, I trust you, and I know that you would never hurt me, and I know my own limits when it comes to—”

“Y/N, stop, please,” he whispered. “Please. I love you, Y/N, and I want to do… I want to be us again, more than ever, but I just want to be 100% sure before we do anything. It’s only been a day. A day, baby girl… You heal fast, I know you do, but not that fast. One wrong move, and you might not ever go back into the field. Sex is nice and all, but it’s not worth it if that’s the price you have to pay.”

I chuckled lightly. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“Hey, you two love birds,” Rossi interrupted, sticking his head into the room, “everyone’s waiting on you two.”

We hurried to follow Rossi out to the backyard where everyone was gathered in front of the priest, Henry, and Will. I slowed when I noticed that it was standing room only. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to stand through the whole thing without literally wanting to tear my own spine out and throw it across the fucking yard. I looked at Hotch, tugging him back towards me. He searched my eyes with worry, and when it finally dawned on him, the worry intensified, and he neared me to hold me close.

He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll hold onto you. If it gets bad, we’ll quietly excuse ourselves.”

“It’ll be rude,” I whispered.

“Everyone will understand. Come on.”

He continued to lead me to the group, a few of them shuffling around so that they could make room for us. Hotch was standing behind me, his arms under mine, hands on my hips, swaying them barely, almost as if it were some kind of hypnotizing therapy on its own, and he was kissing my neck gently, not passionately enough to leave a hickey, but enough to tell me that he loved me a million times over.

As JJ and Will kissed, Hotch pulled me closer and whispered, “You remember our first kiss as husband and wife?”

I nodded, smiling through the happy tears that drifted down my cheeks. I was just so happy and relived that we were all safe, and that we were a family again. Even though things didn’t go to plan yesterday, at least Will was there, and JJ would never have to know what it would be like to raise Henry without him. Even though I hurt myself, I at least had Hotch and he had me, and we would never have to know what it would be like to live without each other.

Everyone started clapping, which pulled me out of my trance. Hotch let go of me so that he could clap, too, and I turned to look up at him and kiss him as we both smiled and wiped each other’s tears away. He smiled against me, leaning into our kiss. He didn’t recognize what he was doing. He had been so careful with me since the bombing yesterday, and yet, for a moment, he forgot about everything and just kissed me the same way he kissed me the day we got married. And I kissed him back. I didn’t stop until the clapping stopped and he realized what he had done, quickly pulling away from me so that he could make sure that I hadn’t shattered to a million pieces. I hadn’t shattered, but I had certainly melted.

During dinner, I sat between Hotch and Morgan, just across from Spencer and Garcia. We were all eating—the rest of them drinking while I watched—and talking the night away, not even pondering for a second that yesterday we nearly died on multiple occasions. It was like all of the bad had been washed away. There wasn’t a single bad thought at the table, and there wasn’t a single frown on anyone’s face. Was that normal? I mean, our lives had never been normal, so I was pretty sure I forgot what “normal” was, but that kind of felt familiar, like that was how we would be if our jobs weren’t so time and emotionally consuming.

Garcia asked how I was, and I lied, telling everyone that I felt okay, that they were just overreacting yesterday. Spencer, just as he had at the hospital, actually told everyone the truth. I glared at him again. He didn’t recognize what he had done, however, and continued on to insist that he could help Hotch keep an eye on me since he could recognize the silence signs that I was trying to mask my pain in order to not worry everyone. I silently cursed him for being so damn smart. And oblivious. But the last part wasn’t necessarily his fault, especially with all the theories that had been circulating around the office since I first joined.

After we finished eating, Hotch held his hand out and asked if I wanted to dance. I stared at him for a moment. Was he really going to let me move? I mean, I wasn’t going to second guess him vocally, of course, but I couldn’t believe that he was asking. I jumped at the chance, though. I accepted his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. The two of us laughed excitedly as we carefully hurried to the dance floor and he turned me around so that I was facing him and we could start slow dancing.

Hotch was so gentle with me. We were hardly swaying, taking slow, gentle, and small steps in circles. His arm was barely even touching my waist. I rested my cheek against his chest and inhaled his scent. I loved him beyond words. Despite our ups and downs, despite his lies and my hurt feelings over and over again, I couldn’t shake that I loved him. I couldn’t help that all of that bad times just couldn’t compare to all of the good times, which made everything worth it at the end of the day.

“What are we going to do?” Hotch asked, sincerely baffled. I didn’t say anything. “This isn’t like when I left… You could move then, take care of the kids, and Morgan was always around… But now you’re actually hurt, and I’m going to be gone all the time. What… What do we do?”

“Nothing really changes, baby. I can take Jack to school; I can look after Scarlet. And, you know, Jessica will always be around to help, too, if I need. We’ll be fine.”

“You could barely pick up Jack yesterday.”

“In my defense, he’s getting too big to keep picking up.”

“Y/N, come on. I’m serious. You can’t put any stress on your back. That includes picking Jack up, and cleaning up the house, doing laundry, doing dishes— anything. You need to be really careful.”

“I’m fine, Aaron.”

“You couldn’t even bend down to grab Scarlet’s toy from the floor.”

I furrowed my brows at him when I noticed the way his hold on me loosened even more after recalling the memory of me in the nursery only a few hours ago. He wasn’t upset about that. I mean— he was. Obviously, he was. But there was something else stirring in the mind of Aaron Hotchner, and it had to do with his own guilt. That was the only explanation I could account for.

I brushed my hand over his hair. “Baby,” I cooed, waiting until he looked at me, “I’m going to be okay.” I scratched his scalp gently. He slowly melted against my touch, nuzzling into the way it relaxed him whenever I played with his hair. “It’s not your fault. I need you to hear that.”

He froze. “I—”

“Aaron, please, listen to me. It’s not your fault. I yelled at you, and I told you that I wanted to make the choices with SWAT, and you gave in. I made the call to send everyone into the bank, and I was the one who neglected to think that there could be a bomb inside. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t have sanctioned an approach if JJ hadn’t compared you to Will.”

My face softened at the realization. I had only thought that he blamed himself, but I didn’t know it for sure, and I hadn’t realized that this was buried so deep. This was far worse than I could have anticipated. “That’s why you’ve been all protective like this.”

I mean, he usually got protective when something changed drastically in our lives. Haley and Scarlet were prime examples. But this was… different. Instead of ordering me to do things that would force me to protect myself, Hotch was coddling me and attending to my every wish. He was trying to make up for what he did. He was trying to apologize to me for something that he had no right blaming himself for; and he was trying to relieve the guilt he felt by catering to me constantly.

Hotch pressed his forehead against mine. “You could have died, Y/N. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was wrong to make a move like that again so soon, and I should have said something—but when JJ put it into perspective for me by asking what I would have done if it were you in that bank… I knew I had to help her. I had to help Will. And I forgot that it’s my job to protect you—to protect our team. I let my emotions get in the way. I shouldn’t have done that. It goes against everything we believe in at the BAU, and it nearly got you killed.”

“It was my choice, Aaron.” I brought my hand to his face and ran my thumb over his mole on his cheek. “Please, hear that. I made the call to move in with SWAT. It was my decision to push the front doors with you, and it was my decision to stay on site instead of going to the hospital afterwards. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But I do.”

“I know.” I felt a tear hit my thumb, making me pout. “It was an accident, baby.”

“Yeah, but it was an accident that could have killed you.”

I leaned in to kiss him because there was this overwhelming urge in the pit of my stomach to somehow comfort him, yet there weren’t enough words to tell him what I meant, and there wasn’t enough time in the world to hug him for as long as I wanted to—and even if the time existed, my strength to give him a Superman hug was too limited. But I could kiss him. I could press my lips to his until we couldn’t breathe, until he would grab my face and hold me there with him, leaning into me until I wrapped my arms around his neck to hold him there with me. So, I kissed him. I kissed him as hard as I could. We exhaled through our noses, turning our faces to kiss from a different angle while catching our breath. But he didn’t hold me as close as I wanted him to. In fact, he pushed me away somewhat, and I could tell that it was because he was terrified that if he tilted over me at all, it would hurt my back.

My shoulders fell. “Aaron Christopher Hotchner, you are not stupid. You did not make the wrong call. Stop thinking that way before I smack you.”

He chuckled. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” I kissed him again, finally feeling his arms snake around the small of my back, giving me the chance to fling my arms around his neck, just like I wanted. I smiled against him.

Someone beside us cleared their throat. We parted to see Morgan standing there, gesturing to ask if he could dance with me. What a way to be a cockblock, am I right? Not that Hotch would have actually fucked me, even if I were on my knees and begging. He made it entirely clear that he wasn’t ready to have sex with me yet, knowing just how bad my back actually was, and he probably wasn’t going to give in for a very long time. I was going to be miserable. Miserable and horny. What was the point of being married to the love of my life if I couldn’t fuck him every chance I had? And then motherfucking Derek Morgan had to come along and ruin the slight chance I had by asking to dance with me. Oh, boy, he was really lucky I loved him.

Hotch was polite about it, though. We smiled, patted Morgan’s shoulder, then stepped away to go dance with Emily since she looked all lonely on her own on the side. Morgan took one of my hands in his, then wrapped his other arm around my waist while I put my free hand on his shoulder. I was staring at him, trying to gauge if he was any better since earlier. He wasn’t.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he insisted before I could say anything. “But thank you for being in my corner, sunshine.” I smiled. “And for always being so damn stubborn, too.”

I laughed. “Only for you.”

“That’s a blatant lie.”

I laughed again. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Can I sneak in a dance?” Emily asked, sneaking up behind me. Morgan and I turned to face her. I saw that she was forcing a smile, and behind that illusion of happiness was a desperation to dance with Morgan, so I nodded and stepped away. “Actually—” Emily started before I could walk away. “I was hoping to dance with you,” she told me. She reached out and grabbed my hand before I could get too far.

I smiled and took her hand. “Okay.”

Morgan didn’t walk away, so we both glared at him slightly as Emily took the lead. She put her right hand on my waist, her left hand clasped tightly with my right hand, and my left hand was on her shoulder. We still glared at Morgan.

“What? Can’t I watch?” he questioned through a chuckle.

I shooed him away until he gave up and went to grab Garcia from her seat. When I looked back at Emily, she was smiling for real this time, which eased my nerves. Despite how happy everyone seemed, there was something off with her. I could tell that she was the secret Morgan was keeping. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but some part of me just put the pieces together, and I supposed I should have attributed it to being a profiler, but I didn’t want to be that stuck up. I just knew. Something told me that she wasn’t entirely okay, and my heart sank.

As Emily looked away from me, almost like she felt too guilty to keep eye contact, I started putting the pieces together. Morgan was as upset that night as he was when he found out Emily “died”. Hotch stayed back to talk to her when we arrived. I didn’t like where this was leading me.

So, I just asked. “You’re leaving again… Aren’t you?”

Emily snapped her attention back to me, her smile falling from her face quickly. But she didn’t deny it. In fact, she didn’t even question it. The look on her face wasn’t confusion over what I was talking about, instead it was about how I knew. So, it was true. I had this feeling boiling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong with her, and for some reason her leaving the team was the only thing that made sense to me. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because if I were in her shoes, I would have felt the same way. I couldn’t imagine going through everything she went through; from finding out that Ian Doyle was back, to the fact that he was coming after us in order to make her life hell, in order to being tortured and stabbed by him, then… dying on the way to the hospital. After all of that, she still had the strength to come back when it was safe. But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same. Since coming back, something had been off about her, and I really hadn’t put the pieces together until she went out of her way to come up and ask to dance with me. She knew she was leaving, and she wanted to cherish the moments she had left with us.

“I don’t want to talk about it—” she began.

“Don’t leave. Please.” I didn’t know how I could be more clear and sincere. “Please.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry.” We were silent for a moment. “How did you know?”

“Morgan was being all weird and keeping secrets from me, which was how I knew it had to do with the team. Since Hotch isn’t acting weird, I know he’s not keeping anything from me. The next option was you… and when you asked to dance… I just… I somehow knew.” I shrugged. “Profiling or whatever.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Sure.”

“We need you here. I need you here. Scarlet—”

“I’ll still be around, Y/N, I promise. I just need to do something else. The BAU isn’t what it used to be for me. I think I burned too many bridges when I was away.”

“What are you going to do instead?”

I felt a sob bubbling in my chest, even though I was trying my very hardest to suppress it. I didn’t want to be sad at a wedding. I didn’t want to even think that I would be sad in the future, missing one of my best friends, wondering if she was okay wherever she was, doing whatever it was, doing whoever it was. There was a time when Emily and I… We just clicked. I mean, at first, I was indifferent because she came shortly after Elle left to go travel and do something new with her life that she loved; but once I warmed up to her, we had a flow at work. Morgan and I were together in the field for almost every case, but there were instances when Emily would tag along, and it made sense. The one thing I could vividly remember about her before she left was the time we were working that swinger case and we were in the car together… With anyone else, I think it would have been awkward. But with Emily, I didn’t blink twice. Being stuck in that car with her—though I didn’t recognize it at the time—was actually funny, and I enjoyed little moments like that. If she actually left, I wouldn’t have those anymore. Hell, since she got back in the first place, there was hardly a chance to have little moments like that, and it broke my heart, but I thought that we were going to have a long time to make up for it.

Emily caught a tear running down my cheek with her thumb. Shit, I swore I wouldn’t actually cry. She searched my eyes for a moment, debating on whether or not her next words would force an actual sob out of me; but I was pleading with her for answers. “Clyde Easter called… He wants me to run the London Interpol office.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You’re taking it?”

“Yeah.”

“And it’ll make you happy?”

“I hope so.”

I sighed quietly and nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” she questioned.

“Yeah. Okay. If it makes you happy, then I can’t tell you not to jump at the opportunity, Em. Once upon a time, you told me that no one else’s opinion matters unless it’s optimistic and helpful. I want my opinion to matter to you. I want you to know that I will always be in your corner, and I will support whatever endeavor it is you choose to seek out because I want the best for you. Because I love you.”

She finally smiled again, almost like she was relieved to hear that from me. “Thank you, Y/N. Truly.” She stopped dancing with me so that she could hug me tightly. “I love you, too.”

And that was how we said goodbye because seeing her off at the airport a few weeks later was just too painful.

-----

criminal minds family: @gorgeousdarkangel @peggy1999 @alex--awesome--22 @oceaneblu @brithedemonspawn @absolutemarveltrash @bshelley322 @rousethemouse @sunshinepower17 @weexinling @pettttyyyc​ @Braty-angel

[nevervalentines]

(From the fluff/general list)

“Any RWBY ship! 12 or 13 :)” 

#12 “how did you get in here?”

#13 “for starters, that’s impossible.”

hi!!! thank u!!! I wrote u a lil baby bumbleby high school au, I hope that’s ok!! they’re girlfriends and they are SO annoying

*******

Taiyang has never been very good at dolling out punishments, but when Yang comes home from school dragging her feet for the second week in a row, he really doesn’t have a choice.

She looks miserable, flannel tied loosely around her waist, ponytail messy, sporting a shiner that’s reddened the skin around her right eye, along her cheekbone. Already inflamed, it promises to bruise, and he thinks that should be punishment enough. But.

“They already called, huh?” Yang slumps up the front porch steps. “Would it help if I told you he started it?”

Taiyang rubs at the back of his neck. “Your principal said otherwise.” He cringes, trying to soften the delivery. “Apparently there were witnesses. Something like – your entire gym class?”

“Mercury had it coming.” Yang stops on the top step. Her backpack dangles from one arm, dragging the ground. “Can’t the fact that he clocked me back be enough?” She waves a hand. “I learned my lesson, and all that.”

“Afraid not, baby girl. This is the second time in as many weeks.” He corrals her gently into the house and roots through the freezer, tossing her an icepack while he deliberates. “A grounding is fair, right?” More to himself than anybody. “A week, maybe?”

“Can I still see –”

“No visitors. That means no Blake, too.”

“An entire week!” Yang slams the icepack onto the kitchen counter. The blue liquid sloshes, the plastic pouch threatening to pop. “That’s bullshit.”

“Okay,” he says, exasperated, now. “Room. Now. Don’t let Ruby hear you talking like that.”

The muscles in Yang’s jaw tick, heat rolling off her in waves, but she pinches her mouth tight. If her eyes flash, he doesn’t mention it, just watches her stomp toward the staircase. Hears fading footsteps, the slam of her bedroom door.

When music starts blaring, he allows it, riot grrrl punk pop spitting from around the door frame. He can picture her pouting, touting loud music and bruised knuckles like armor. Figures he’ll let it slide, just until after dinner. A week without Blake might be consequence enough.

**

Yang reclines on rumpled sheets, too pissed to change out of her day clothes, shoes kicked up on her bed, arms behind her head.

A five-day suspension, a week without seeing Blake. It’s a promise of purgatory and, worse, boredom. Her eye throbs, the skin around the socket already softening into a bone deep hum of pain.

Time passes in blurry pigments; she swims in and out of a doze while the day fades into a sticky-blue dusk. She ignores her dad’s calls for dinner, ignores Ruby’s hesitant knock on the door, lets the room darken around her – watches the sky outside ripen and split.

It’s almost summer now, and the box fan churns uselessly at her bedside, the skin of her back is sticky with sweat, the sheets below her cloying and damp. Outside, the streetlights wink on, one by one, and the blurry white noise of the fan is almost enough to mask the scrabbling outside her window. Almost.

When Blake’s head pops over the windowsill, Yang about pisses her pants. Blake grins, her teeth a flash of white in the darkness, ears on a swivel, pressing her face close to the wire mesh of the window screen.

Bleary and half-asleep, with Blake only a silhouette against a rapidly darkening sky, it’s like Yang has conjured her directly out of a dream.  

Blake’s voice is strained, leveraging herself up on her forearms. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Then. “Let me in, edgelord.”

Yang scrambles out of bed, heart in her throat, fumbles the screen’s latch open, helps Blake haul herself over the sill. Two hands under her arms, she pulls, Blake’s sneakers scraping against the paneled siding of the house.

Blake tumbles inside the bedroom, landing on top of Yang with an oof. She ushers in the sharp smell of fresh cut grass, cool nighttime air, summer-sweet.

“How did you get in here?” Yang sounds a little breathless, even to her own ears, and Blake settles more comfortably on top of her, so pleased with herself that Yang has to actively stop herself from kissing her smug smile away.

“Your window is right above the garage,” Blake says. She shifts her weight, forcing Yang to bow into the close weave of her room’s carpet. “I just had to get up there and,” a vertical shrug, a grin, “it was easy.”

“I’m grounded for a week,” Yang says, a little despairing, mouth tilting into a pout. “My dad says I can’t see you.”

“It’s dark, you can, like, hardly see me anyway,” Blake says. She wriggles on top of her, curls her fingers into the fabric of Yang’s tank top. “You’re kind of sweaty.”

“Did you climb up the side of my house just to insult me?” Yang asks. She feels a surge of affection so strong, she wonders if it might break something inside her, like there’s no more room left in her chest for anything but this: Blake smiling, nuzzling close. Blake’s slight frame settled in the sling of her hips, the too-warm press of the bare skin of her legs against Yang’s, one ankle hooked around her own.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Blake says. She ducks her head, rests her chin on Yang’s chest, looking up at her through her lashes. “And seeing as I found you crying in the dark, I made the right call.”

Yang struggles up onto her arms, dislodging Blake who sits back on her calves, amused.

“I wasn’t crying.” This, almost a yell, before she remembers herself and lowers her voice to a harsh whisper. “I was just upset.”

Sobering, Blake rocks to her feet, reaching down to tangle her hand with Yang’s and pull her to a stand. She pushes her onto the edge of her mattress, touches her cheek, gentle, careful to avoid the bruise.

Yang’s eyes are adjusting now, and she can just make out the soft-round of Blake’s face, the flat glint of her eyes in the dark.

“I know, baby.” Blake’s voice is throaty, a little sweet.

She kneels, unlacing Yang’s converse one by one, tugging them off before kissing her knees, her ankles. Yang says nothing, just watches Blake in a daze, breath hitched high in her throat, a rosy blush mottling the long line of her throat.

“I’m sorry you’re grounded,” Blake says. She pushes Yang to her back and follows, climbing back on top of her. This time, Yang has enough sense to wrap her arms around Blake’s back, tugging her securely against her until they press close, chest to chest.

“I don’t even get why,” Yang says. A pout. “He was talking shit about you, everybody heard it.”

She tilts her face up, hoping for a kiss. Blake retreats, just barely, nudging her nose with her own, instead. When she talks, Yang can feel her breath against her mouth.

“You did punch Mercury in the face, Yang.”

“It was gym class, it was an accident.”

“You guys were – you guys were playing badminton.”

“Mistakes happen.”

“You were opposite sides of the net.”

Yang looks at her sideways, sly. “Like I said.”

“For starters, that’s impossible.” Blake tucks her lips into her mouth, suddenly shy. “But also – thank you.” She leans in, brushes a kiss against Yang’s jaw. “You know I don’t need you to fight my battles –”

She quiets Yang’s immediate noise of agreement with another kiss, this time at the corner of her mouth.

“— but it was really sweet.”

“I missed you,” Yang says, a hint of a whine. She traces a hand down Blake’s back, slips it under the edge of her shirt, strokes a finger along her hip.

“It’s only been five hours, Yang.” Blake’s voice is soft with laughter, almost adoring, and she leans down, offers another kiss, this time to the apple of her cheek. “But maybe the week apart can start tomorrow.”

“Or maybe the day after that,” Yang says. She tilts her head up, splays the flat of her hand against Blake’s back, urging her closer. “He didn’t really specify when.”

“You’re so smart,” Blake whispers.

She eases against her, t-shirts rucking up, pressed breasts-to-belly-to-hip, the oscillation of the fan drowning Blake’s whimper as Yang slips a thigh between her legs and grins, all teeth and flush.

Blake kisses her, full, nudges carefully, lip to lip, until Yang opens her mouth, hands tightening at her back.

“Stay a while,” she says, rolls her tongue into Blake’s mouth, feels Blake’s hand come up to pet, soft, at the skin underneath her eye.

“Just for a minute,” Blake says, then presses back in, a breeze stirring warm air through the open window.

**

It’s mid-morning when Ruby shoves open the bedroom door, Yang and Blake curled close under the sheets, asleep. They jar awake at the noise, Yang’s arm tightening around Blake’s back.

Ruby sticks her face inside, hair tousled with sleep, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Her words crack with a yawn, and she blinks at them slowly.

“Hi, Blake. By the way, Yang, dad says you’re double grounded, but also to let you both know breakfast is ready.”

She closes the door behind her and Blake’s laugh follows her all the way down the stairs.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.18

Impostor

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)  x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3690

Summary: Natasha is showing a bit of tough love, ‘Nat’ is on a shaky ground and Tony is being mature. Seriously, I mean it, this isn’t a joke, Tony actually can be an adult. See for yourself.

Warnings: mentions of amnesia and death, swearing, light angst and--

Story masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Despite Steve’s initial protests, you started cleaning up while he was still trying to sooth his supersoldier appetite.

You weren’t finished yet when irritated Natasha Romanoff paced into the room.

“Come on, Rogers. I get the situation you found yourself in, I really do, but try to be smart next time,” she hissed and seemed ready to yank him to his feet by his ear.

If she hadn’t look so intimidating, you might even laugh. Steve had the decency to look guilty and you quickly realized this was about him denying the director his wishes.

‘Smart’ though? Meaning?

“Sorry, Romanoff.”

“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me and think for a second! I have two SHIELD agents downstairs, keeping them from coming up here only by telling them I’ll bring you down there in my teeth if I have to!”

Your blood turned to ice. That was much more serious than Steve had led on. What the hell?!

Steve shot the fellow agent an angry look, his teeth clenched, clearly about to snap back at her – he never got a chance.

“You’re coming with me. Do you really want them to sniff around here? I have nothing to worry about, but you might want to sort things out before Fury finds out what’s going on and tries to stick his nose into it,” Natasha stated flatly and the glare she sent his way spoke volumes. Also, the flicker of her gaze towards you during her speech was everything but inconspicuous.

You gulped in fright and resisted the urge to take a step back despite the murderous glare being aimed at Steve.

“Stop scaring the shit out of people!” Steve hissed, rising to his feet and protectively standing in front of you.

Natasha sighed and eased her terrifying manners; the switch to a friendly demeanour was almost too sharp to wrap your head around.

“Sorry. You know I’m not afraid of him. I know you aren’t either. But think, Steve. Do you want Fury to find out right now and have him on your ass – hers, more importantly, because she’s the one who rose from the death –  or do you want… more time with this very charming lady, who happens to be your soulmate?” she bargained and threw a wink at you over Steve’s shoulder. What was this, a fucking wink day? And how was she switching between her moods so quickly?

“I know which I would prefer,” she added softly and smiled at you.

Her gentleness surprised you just like when she had led you to Steve’s room only several hours ago – really, only hours had it been? – and more so, her authenticity. This was a side she was willing to show her friends – for some reason, to you as well – and the strict uncompromising agent was her everyday mask.

Steve let out an indistinct sound that told you he admitted to himself she was right and that he resigned, though very much unwillingly.

You forced yourself to gather some courage and plastered a smile on your face as he turned to face you.

“If this is just about me, don’t worry about it. Go.”

Thee lamely covered hurt at you sending him away tugged at your heart, but if you were being honest, you maybe needed time to think and Steve being away could help.

“I’ll still be here. I promise,” you assured him and just like yesterday, he seemed calmer after that. Yet, there was still something that had him frowning as if he was being torn in half, having an itch he wanted to scratch, but was afraid of revealing to you where it was.

You exchanged a look with Natasha and took a calculated guess when you saw her eyes turning compassionate. You finally understood why you had found him in the chair by your bed this morning – it was closer to you. Definitely close enough to cover you in case any kind of shit went down.

“And I’ll be fine here. There’s no safer place in New York, right?”

The thumbs-up from the Natasha was subtle, but you still noticed it. Jackpot. If it wasn’t so sad that Steve was terrified for your safety, you might even cheer. In this case, not so much.

Steve’s eyes found yours, boring into them as if looking for the last remnants of anything that would keep him in the Tower. He must have found none, because he nodded softly. Your smile grew more honest.

“Okay. Alright. If you don’t mind. I promise I’ll try to be quick,” he declared at which Natasha cleared her throat.

“Because you can totally tell the World Security Council to suck it up…”

…what? Did Steve nearly refuse such an important meeting (it sounded pretty important, okay) for you? Thank God for Natasha Romanoff. You weren’t sure your conscience could live with that…

“You did,” Steve threw over his shoulder swiftly and that caused both yours and hers lips to twitch. Yeah, she seemed like the type. “Jarvis, does she still have the authorisation to walk the Tower without limitations?”

“She does now again, Steve,” the AI announced and you only then realized he was talking about you. Oh.

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I would have just-“ you blurted out and was cut off by his eyebrow arching.

“-sit in the same room all day?”

Point taken. “…yes. If necessary.”

“Well, it’s not,” he exclaimed and pressed the lightest of kisses to your temple. “Let’s get going so we can be back.”

With that, the agent and the captain took off, while you were left there standing, dumbfounded. Your face was burning hot, the warmth focused into one particular place where Steve’s lips brushed your skin.

As you automatically reached for Steve’s plate to clean it as well, you wondered if he did it on purpose or if it was something he did automatically.

Either way, the recovery from the shock and the pleasant feeling the gesture left in your chest kept you busy for the next half an hour.

And suddenly you knew it wasn’t thinking what you needed to do, no. You had to talk to someone. And you knew exactly who.

“Uhm… Jarvis? Can I ask you something?”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

When the AI opened the door for you, you came to face Mr. Stark’s backside. Admittedly, it wasn’t the worst view you could be offered, though Steve’s would have been more impressive; yes, you had noticed, that man was impossible not to ogle. More importantly than the view being acceptable, you’d rather spoke to the man eye to eye. Which was rather difficult seeing as he was partially buried in… a robotic suit with shiny colours of red and gold?

A superhero suit, you realized. Right. Because you were momentarily accommodated with superheroes.

“Uhm, Mr. Stark?” you addressed him warily, not wanting him to-

A clank sounded as his head snapped up, its back colliding with a platter of metal above it with deadly precision. Your hand shot up to your mouth to cover it before you could embarrass yourself by the squeal coming out of it.

“Goddammit!” he cursed loudly, making you wince in compassion as he rubbed the injured spot on his head, turning around. ”Who-  oh. Oh. Hey, kid.”

“Why is everyone calling me that?” you complained, remembering Dean’s set of nicknames involving exactly this. Then you grimaced as he abruptly let his hand fall to show you he was in fact not hurting. He even grinned, an expression of emotion you believed only with hesitance. “Also, sorry.”

“I’ll live,” he waved it of before answering your rhetorical question. ”It’s ‘cause we’re old and respectable. Does Cap call you that too? ‘Cause that might be a bit weird.”

“Uhm… no…?”

“Oh, good, I was getting worried,” he hummed light-heartedly and then went to a container on his right, pulling out an icepack to place over his wound after all. He gestured towards a swivel chair politely. You shook your head. “What’s on your mind?”

“The… uhm, the Jarvis told me I wouldn’t be interrupting…” you pointed vaguely at the ceiling, suddenly realizing this was a bad idea. Probably. Not to mention Mr. Stark was apparently in a middle of something, so… “Clearly, I am. Sorry, I’ll just-“

“Nope! Stay right here! And it’s Jarvis without the… ‘the’. You didn’t answer the question.”

He took the seat since you seemed uninterested in it and tilted his head with one corner of his lips raised.

“I… I wanted to thank you for your hospitality. And… I’d like to ask you something, but it might be a bit strange?”

He removed the icepack with a chuckle, tossing it carelessly to the middle of his workspace. “Kid, for all we know, you were brought back from death by an angel who spilled your memories on your way from Heaven. There’s no such thing as ‘strange’ these days. Kinky might weird me out – maybe –, but strange? Nah.”

Kinky? Really? You were so not about to talk sex with this man. His jokes were slowly putting you at ease a little though, despite what you had come here to ask.

“Right. I… uhm… I just wanted to ask… uh, what am I like? Or… she was, I mean.”

The man frowned at you, sitting upright instead of basically lying in the chair.

“You still are. Her, I mean,” he mimicked you. “Why would you ask me that? Why not Cap? Or is he only bragging about himself?”

“No! No. Steve’s… very helpful.”

“Oh. Good for him. ‘Cause being narcissistic is my jam, not his, he’s more like ‘I’m just a kid from Brooklyn’ kind of guy,” he impersonated Steve with his chin stuck out, while his voice fell an octave. The corners of your lips twitched. “Then again, he’s a hundred-year-old man and me, on the other hand, I’m slightly younger, a genius, a billionaire and overall perfect.”

That drew a chuckle from you – you simply couldn’t hold it back anymore. This man was a clown. But he was also speaking very bluntly, which was why you had chosen him to be your source of information. You liked his demeanour; he reminded you of Dean. You had a feeling that you might have been the teasing kind of friend with him. She had been. Whatever.

“I bet,” you humoured him and he squinted at you playfully.

“Correct answer. You want an opinion of someone who isn’t smitten by you,” he stated confidently and you felt the blush instantly colouring your cheeks as his choice of words.

“Smitten is not… uhm-“

“Kid, he is definitely smitten. He was and still is, or is again, whatever floats your boat,” he smirked and leaned his elbows onto his thighs. “Not that I can blame him. You’re easy on the eyes, ridiculously good to him and for him, because you are the same breed of a creepy romantic, you can keep up with my and Clint’s verbal combat, because clearly you were born with the sass gene, and believe it or not, you showed quite early on that you had guts and quite steely nerves, which is something Steve’s girl desperately needs.”

You blinked in surprise at such long speech. You had no idea what to say to that shower of compliments, having a bit of a problem to believe it was you he just described. So you focused on the safest topic.

“Steve?”

“What about him?” Mr. Stark asked, confused.

“This is the first time you called him ‘Steve’, not ‘Cap’,” you elaborated, only to earn an almost tired sigh.

“Well, obviously. Cap has a stick up his ass and jumps out of planes to save the day. It’s mostly Steve who’s a little shit and doesn’t use parachute for the said jump.” I beg your pardon? Steve is doing what? “And he’s always Steve first to you, Steve with the job of being Cap.”

That quickly distracted you from the stunts Steve was apparently pulling on missions of saving the world. You could imagine that – seeing Steve as a regular person, no matter how unique he was. You had a hunch he appreciated that too.

“Oh, I didn’t mention that before? That you were the first civilian he bothered to drop the bullshit superhero persona with? Demolished the walls keeping his little precious heart, that’s actually too big for his own good, safe and never rebuilt them? My bad, so I’m telling you now. And he’s willing to bend the rules for you. I never saw him leave a meeting early until you showed up.”

He gestured wildly with his hands as he drew metaphorical walls in the air and made them crumble down and then his fingers curled with his thumbs straightened, connected to create a heart from his hands.

Your own heart swelled in your chest a little. Could it really be true? Could Steve have been honest with you? And… could you be that person for him?

You had no idea what to say. Or do, for that matter and the man huffed exasperatedly.

“Look… I’m not great at this, okay? That’s why I built robots, not humans.”

“Jarvis seems human enough,” you quipped, taking care to leave out the ‘the’ this time.

“Thank you, miss,” the AI quickly chimed in.

Of course, he was listening now too. You hoped he wasn’t recording or something, because this was a very private conversation you wouldn’t want anyone to see and hear. Especially not Steve.

“That’s because he has a human template. He was a servant at my house when I was a kid. Great guy. deserved to be immortalized.”

That little piece of private information in exchange of opening yourself to him about your insecurities and worries was highly appreciated. Your next confession was the only thing that kept you from smiling at Mr. Stark gratefully.

“I… I think I’m hurting him by being here,” you whispered the darkest secret and Stark’s eyebrows got nearly lost in his hairline with how swiftly they jumped.

“You? Hurting Steve?” he repeated incredulously and you worried your teeth over your lower lip, curling into yourself, averting his intense glare bashfully.

“Hurting him and his reputation on top of that. And his job…. I don’t remember him. I can’t and I hate it, because I met him only yesterday and it would be ridiculously easy to fall in love with him, but how can I? How can I be that person to him, when he’s in love with someone I don’t know anymore?”

“First – if this is about his job, about Fury mostly, screw that. Focus on what’s important here. Him,” he emphasized, rising from his seat to stand face to face with you – which he did, because he wasn’t as tall as Steve.

You opened your mouth to oppose him that Steve’s job was sure as hell important – to Steve and to the world – but you never got the chance as Stark raised his index finger warningly.

“Uh-uh. I talk, you listen. You’re asking me how? Duh. Meet him again. Know yourself again. I told you – so far, you seem to be the same. But even if you’re not…” he mused, shaking his head with his jaw clenched. “Cap- Steve’s been at the bottom, okay? If you think you’re hurting him by being here in any form different than a literal ghost haunting his ass-- he’s… you’re not hurting him is all I’m saying, okay? So what, you might order different toppings on your pizza or like a different shampoo, show up here wearing a lumberjack shirt, whatever. But this…” He tapped approximately on your soulmarks, oblivious to how much his words had affected you so far. Which was a lot. “…means something. It means everything. To you, to him, to you together.”

“You… you didn’t seem to believe that too much yesterday. Now you do? So what, we’re okay and we’re going to be, because fate said so?”

Your question might have sounded sceptical, but on the inside, that was another matter entirely. What Stark had told you was already worming its way through your brain, very effectively.

Could this, whatever this was, be better than you not being here at all? You had thought so, but Steve’s interaction with the director, the carefully guarded pain being his kind eyes… it made you doubt. You hadn’t meant for it to sound like you wanted to flee, because you didn’t, but… your overloaded mind was getting the best of you.

And Tony Stark was apparently having none of it, because he made a face and shrugged.

“I don’t know who said so. It could be fate, it could be God, it could be the fairies for all I care. The thing is, you believe in that, don’t you? That the soulmark means something and that there was a reason for you to meet him again, exactly like that.”

You had no counterargument since he hit the nail on the head, so you remained silent. He charmed a lop-sided smile singing of victory.

“That’s what I thought,” he exclaimed, satisfied with himself. Then, his face softened a bit. “And that’s fine. You thought that before, which is my point. You’re still you. You might not have concrete memories, but I think everything about you does. It feels like it sometimes, doesn’t it? Weird things, things you shouldn’t feel, things you shouldn’t know, but you do.”

Your heart positively stopped as you recalled the familiarity of Steve’s face, the comfort of his embrace, the warmth in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not so shortly after meeting him.  

“How… how do you know that?” you whispered, voice barely audible but still very much shaky.

“I didn’t. I took a wild guess. Looks like it was a good one.”

You huffed a short laugh, unable to comprehend how this man even existed, brisk and arrogant at first sight, but very much intelligent, funny and wise.

“Yeah. Looks like it…” you mused with an absent smile remaining. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

His arms went around you a bit awkwardly and for a very short moment, but they did, a pat on your left shoulder following. He withdrew quickly then, his hands stuck into the pockets of his jeans.

“Let’s never speak of this conversation again, alright, kid?” You nodded obediently, glad he wanted to keep this under wraps. “And stop calling me Mr. Stark. It’s Tony. Leave that mister shit for bedroom games or whatever.”

You shook your head incredulously as you recognized the moment you should distance yourself and leave him work. “Whatever you say, Tony. I owe you one.”

“Ha! You wish. It’s like a thousand. No, three thousand!”

“You’re rich enough not to dwell on such petty debt,” you called back at him and even without seeing his face, you were able to tell he was smirking.

“Oh, am I? How would you know?”

“I wouldn’t. Took a wild guess!”

A chuckle walked you out of the door instead of the man himself.

“See? Still the sassy queen!”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

You wandered the Tower then, visiting the rooftop even and taking in the marvellous view. When you spread your arms to feel the wind better, you felt a ghost of fingers trace your skin, nothing concrete, just a whisper of a touch. You smiled sadly, wondering if it was a memory trying to fight its way out of the knot in your brain Castiel had mentioned when he had first attempted to figure out what was wrong with you and possibly fix it – which he had failed.

You didn’t blame him. Truth was, you didn’t know who to blame; not Castiel, not Steve and you had enough reason to know it wasn’t exactly your fault either. When you spread your arms again, the sensation didn’t return. So you left the open space, perhaps in search of the similar feeling throughout the Tower.

After Jarvis nudging you to take something from the fridge at least to imitate lunch, you met Clint again. You only nodded in a greeting at the man from the morning and continued your route. He didn’t engage, sensing you needed an alone time – which you did. Ever since the talk with Tony, a smile never quite left your lips, no matter how small.

You didn’t know what time it was when Jarvis addressed you again, polite as always, to tell you Steve was back. You felt your face light up and headed the direction you believed was his room.

You never ended up in a rather open hallway leading to it, stopping in your tracks when you heard a sudden rustle of fabric behind you. You spun on your heels only to meet an unfamiliar face of a woman, watching you with interest. A creepy interest, the kind of an examining glare that made you shiver.

You would swear you could feel the air crackle when her lips curled up slightly. Hair stood at the back of your neck and you fought a tremble. There was something powerful about the woman and you didn’t know whether it was safer not to move anymore or try to take a run for it. Since your feet took roots in the ground, staying still it was.

“Hi,” she breathed and it felt like she stole the air right from your lungs only to say the one word.  

“Who... who are you?” you queried shakily, something in you screaming to kneel in front of the woman who carried an immense power; how you knew that, you couldn’t tell.

When you didn’t listen to the instinct to submit to her, it was only due to the numbing horror as she took a step closer.

“Oh, do not fear me. I’m just here to fix what my brother obviously didn’t think through. Close your eyes,” she requested almost gently, but you couldn’t. You were afraid that if you did, you would never open them again.

And while you didn’t remember what it felt like to die, you sure as hell didn’t want to relive it.

When you didn’t obey, the woman sighed.

The very next second, you swiftly turned your face away, shading your eyes the second the sharp glow hit you.

You screamed at the burning sensation suddenly coursing your veins, lighting up every cell in your body, setting it on fire. Tears prickled in your eyes, running down your cheeks, leaving a burning trail like acid in their wake.

And then there was nothing. ༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 19

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

*runs and hides*

To distract you: wasn’t that a lovely moment with Tony? O:-)

[98prilla]

Hidden Shapes

Next

Previous

AO3

...

He runs.

 He runs past Patton, he shoves open his door, locks it behind him, then lunges through the portal hidden under his bed that Remus had installed years ago, when he’d first moved to the light side, a shortcut to his imagination, to the dark side. He pulls the trapdoor shut behind him, landing on the forest floor with barely a sound.

 Colors are brighter, stranger, he’s pretty sure in this form he can actually see colors others can’t, see at a spectrum impossible for humans, since he isn’t, not really. That thought chokes a sob out of him, though it comes out as more of a growling hiss, and he throws himself back into movement, speeding across the ground, jumping up, into the trees, when they become too dense, seeing the cliff approaching, but not slowing, he braces himself, springs, his stomach flip flopping as he drops-

 Then he shoots his web and latches onto the trees on the other side, swinging across the canyon. If he were in a better mood, he’d be laughing right now, at the feel of the wind, at moving so fast, at letting himself go, more than he has in years, letting himself go feral, but he isn’t, his heart is pounding and his breath is speeding and he’s moving, faster and faster, and faster-

 Then, suddenly, there’s no more trees.

 He doesn’t have time to stop his momentum. He manages to web the ground, before he crashes onto it, letting his shoulder impact first, easily slipping into a barrel roll, before losing control and tumbling across the earth, head spinning as he finally comes to a stop, hissing through clenched teeth as he sits up, taking in the damage.

His shoulder is bruised to hell, and scraped raw and bloody, and so are his legs, his hands, though his appendages are intact. There’s a gash on his forehead, and he curses, pulling his sleeve over his hand, pressing it against the wound to try and staunch the bleeding, letting out another hissing breath at the ache in his chest, a bruised or cracked rib.

 He’s crying. He doesn’t know when it started, he feels too numb to cry, but he is, a steady, endless flow of tears that wash down his face, and he squeezes his eyes closed, doubling over, legs closing in around him, hiding him from view.

 “Hello, little one.” He nearly jumps, at the sudden low and sonorous voice, but he doesn’t care, he simply curls tighter, trying to suppress the pathetic whimper trying to escape his lips. “You aren’t one of the usual resident monstrosities of Remus’s design. Are you new?” He flinches hard, this time, realizing what he’s being mistaken for, because he must truly look horrendous, and Patton, god, Patton, not to mention Roman, once he hears, and Logan will just want to study him, dissect him, like some specimen, he doesn’t want to be the monster, he isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’theisn’theisn’t- “Let me take a look at you, darling. I can help make it better.” He pulls his legs in tighter, shaking, forcing words to his lips.

 “N-no. G-g-go away.” He hisses, and he hears a sharp inhale.

 “Anxiety. You… aren’t supposed to be here.” He laughs, at that, a cold, hard, bitter laugh.

 “look at me. Where else could I go?” He bares his fangs, eyes flashing and shadows growing as he feels hands pushing aside his legs, gently tipping his chin up, meeting the orange cat’s eyes of the dragon witch.

 “I remember a time when you wore this form more often than not. You and Remus were feral little things, more beast than man, some days, all shadowy blobs of too many teeth and limbs and claws, with your venomous bites and poison laced scratches, I remember when you’d spend hours, weaving the most wonderous tapestries, that sparkled so brilliantly, in the morning dew. Or ones near invisible, that would trip up Remus, as he tried to invade your lair. Once you wouldn’t have consolidated monstrous, with evil, they are different. Plenty of monstrous things are still beautiful, after all. Plenty of monstrous things are still smart, and kind, and sweet, little one. I would have hoped that to be a lesson you remembered, still.” Her words are soft and gentle as she caresses his cheek, a tender smile on her lips. “I haven’t forgotten, my tiny terror.” He folds, falling into her open arms and sobbing, letting it all go, as her near black wings enfold them both, her tail gently coiling around his feet. She doesn’t say anything, simply holds him, rocks him as he cries, promising safety with her steady presence, her slightly hotter than normal warmth. “I gather from your state you don’t want to go back to the world?” He shakes his head frantically, not moving from his place in her arms. “alright, darling. Hold on tight, for a moment.” He feels a slight vertigo, the world running like a watercolor painting, before resettling to a homey looking cottage, a fire lit and providing gentle warmth, the floors covered in soft rugs, the smell of cinnamon and something else, something warm and fizzing and popping in the air. Magic.

 “If you want tea, you’ll have to let go.” He does with a slightly rueful smile, one she adores, and she brushes back his hair, before moving to put the kettle on, getting her favorite teacup from the cupboard, along with a black and white chipped jack Skellington mug.

 “you still have that?” He says, voice coming out hoarse, as he pulls himself into one of the surprisingly comfy wooden chairs surrounding the small table in the kitchen, watching as she bustles about.

 “Of course. I hoped I’d have occasion to use it again. Though I admit I hoped it would be under better circumstances.” He winces, looking away.

 “sorry. For not visiting. I… I should have. Me and Ree hadn’t been on the best terms, for… well, for a while. I didn’t want to chance being caught here by myself.”

 “Yes. I heard all about it, believe me. He fluctuated between grief, despair, and unmitigated rage, before settling on a scarily distant disdain. Any mention of you and he just… shut down.”

 “sorry.” He whispers again, to her soft huff.

 “Stop apologizing, darling. I’m not placing blame or accusing. I know you had your reasons. Now, let me have a look at you, we can’t have those getting infected, and you know they will.” He groans, wincing as he pulls his sleeve away from his forehead.

 “But it stings!” He whines, making her laugh, as she gathers the warm water and soft hand towel.

 “You’ve had worse, Anxiety. And unless you want me to summon Remus to instant heal you, we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” Her voice is slightly stern now, the same tone Patton always takes, when scolding them or breaking up a fight, and he smiles slightly, glancing up at her.

 “alright. It’s, um, Virgil, now, by the way.” She smiles, coming around the table and gently dabbing away the dried blood from the gash, wincing in sympathy as he grits his teeth, before patting it dry and securing gauze. “Ah. It suits you, I think." He pulls up his pants to reveal his skinned knees, his shins peppered with scrapes, though nothing there is hurt too badly, though it still stings like a son of a gun. They’re just finishing looking at his shoulder, her turning away to get an icepack for it, when he hears the tell tale swing of the doggy door, small scratching against the mat in the entryway.

 “Oh, god-“ He manages to just barely brace himself, as a ball of icy silvery blue barrels into his chest, knocking his chair over backwards, sending his arms pinwheeling before he collides with the floor, his fall slowed slightly by a quick spell, that lowers him gently the last inch to avoid concussing him. He doesn’t have time to thank her, however, as his face is getting destroyed by licks, and he can’t get a word out edgewise, between his pleas to stop, and his gasping laughter.

 “Nilas, stop, down girl, NiNi!” He laughs, finally managing to get the large cat sized dragon under control, though her tail still whipped wildly, and when he rolled out of the chair to sit up on the floor, she instantly climbed his shirt, draping herself around his shoulders, tail hanging off one, curling around his upper bicep to keep herself steady, her head resting on her paws on his other. He laughs again at her low, contented chuffing, the equivalent of a dragon purr, as he scratches her head. “Happy to see me, huh?” She buts her head against his cheek in response, before giving it one more lick, before laying back down on her paws, though her head stays tucked up against his face.

 “Yeah. I missed you too, Nilas.” He mumbles, pain forgotten in the face of a happy dragon snuggling against him, a soothing, perfect weight that grounds him, helps him breathe a little easier against the stress slowly fading away. He rights the chair and slips back into it, taking the mug that she sets in front of him.

 “Roman still giving you trouble?” He asks, after a few moments in comfortable silence, taking a sip of the tea, which is deep and herbal, just a hint of sweetness from the honey. She scowls, and he can hear her tail sweeping across the floor.

 “Don’t get me started. I enjoy playing his games, but that boy has not given me a moments peace. Do you know how hard it is, to swap into evil enchantress mode, when your nemesis has showed up in the middle of you baking? I had a pie in the oven and I couldn’t stop worrying it was going to burn.”

 “did it?” he asks, grinning.

 “No. I told him he’d better stop wasting his time with me, and worry about my agents infiltrating the castle, and he took off. There weren’t any, of course, from what I understand he had a lovely game of whodunnit about the royal crown, though it turned out he’d simply misplaced it.” Virgil laughed, imagining Roman frantically running around, accusing random townspeople, making one of those red string conspiracy cork boards, only to find it under his bed.

 “Oh, that’s amazing.” He finally wheezes through his giggling, taking another long sip of his tea, before yawning hugely.

 “alright, enough catching up. To bed with you.”

 “but-"

 “uh, uh, uh, you know the drill. You’ll be falling out of the chair soon, anyway.” She teases gently, helping support him as he stands, a bit wobbly on his feet, another yawn impossible to stifle sneaking through.

 “Curse my traitorous body.” He mutters, making her laugh, as he lays down on the cot in the dark corner of the living room, pulling all the fluffy blankets up so high they nearly cover his head, Nilas circling a few times, before curling up snuggled against his chest, kneading her paws contentedly.

 “sweet dreams, tiny terror.” She murmurs, kissing his forehead fondly, as his eyes flutter shut. “sleep well. You could use it.”

 “mhm. Thanks, Tabitha. Love you.” He mumbles, drifting off, a small smile on his lips as he rests his head against Nilas.

 She smiles, stroking his hair a few more times before pulling away, a low sigh slipping from her lips.

 Well. No doubt Remus would appear soon, and he could explain what had sent Virgil into such a tizzy, though no doubt it was something to do with the others. He wouldn’t have been so scared of himself, otherwise. He was never scared of himself, until he started hanging around them. He used to revel in causing mayhem, tearing through the imagination, scrapping with Remus, winning, more often than not, on his own merit. He was such a small little shadow, but so fierce, with those eyes of his, peeking guardedly through his mop of hair, an almost perpetual frown on his face, always braced for the worst.

 But he was kind, too. The first day she'd come across him alone, he’d glared at her, hissed, baring his fangs and scuttling backwards, ready to bite.

 She’d knelt down, almost as surprised to see him as he clearly was to see her.

 “hello, little one. What are you doing, out here alone?” He hadn’t answered, merely continued to glare, tensed to spring or run. She’d hummed, looking around, the field was full of knee high grass, his head barely poking above the stalks, wildflowers filling the space, butterflies (both literal and figurative) drifting through the air. A distant shout rang through the imagination, an echo of whatever turmoil was occurring up in the rest of the mind, and he flinched, curling in on himself, breath catching.

 “ah. Trying to find some quiet, until the storm blows over.” The little shadow nodded, watching a bee struggle to stay atop a flower blowing in the breeze, before reaching out and holding it steady, a small smile crossing his face as he leaned in, watching the bee burry its head in the pollen. “Well, don’t mind me, then. Is it alright, if I stay here to read? I won’t bother you.” A moment passed, but he nodded solemnly, watching the bee flit away, before fixing his gaze on her, which she studiously ignored, studying her book while watching out of the corner of her eye.

 Another echoing shout, almost like a thunder crash, and he let out a little shriek. Before she could ask if he was okay, the little shadow had scuttled closer, throwing himself onto her lap and curled in a shivering ball, hiding himself under her cloak.

 “Oh, darling, it’s alright. They won’t hurt you here, I promise.” He hadn’t uncurled, and she’d hesitantly wrapped an arm around him, brushing through his hair with her other hand, humming softly, until she felt him slowly start to uncurl, realizing finally he’d fallen asleep, tiny hands clutching at her shirt, impossible to pry off even if she’d wanted to.

 When Creativity and Deceit panicked later, realizing Anxiety had been missing all day, they were surprised to find him happily coloring on the floor of the witch’s cottage, dark aura dispersed enough they could actually see his body, a dragon curled around him protectively.

 The next day he’d shown back up on her doorstep, a bit shyer, but no less brave, holding out a flower crown, painstakingly woven with colorful flowers, and it may have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. From then on, Anxiety, or Virgil, now, was as good as hers, under her protection, always welcome, always at home in her home. Her baby, her shadow, her tiny terror.

[celestialgaea]

A Teacher’s Affaire || Literature Teacher!Ezio Auditore x Student!Reader || Part II

Warnings: 

Part I

‘Hey, Girl! Catch the ball!’ But it was too late after all. The volleyball hit the surface of your face with a big impact. Your head flew back and you felt how the pain spread across your nose. the room was a blurry mess with students and the P.e teacher running towards you. A sea of mumbles and Gasped filled the air, making you confused and disorientated. You didn’t even realise that your nose was bleeding until you felt your lips being covered by the thick moisture, drippling it’s way onto your teeth. ‘Someone bring her to the nurse!’ The P.E teacher ordered and Elise draped your arm around her neck, giving you support to lean on. 

‘Elise It’s just a nosebleed, not a sprained ankle.’ You tried to assure her, but she shushed you to silence. ‘Cover up that nose and close that mouth, or do you wanna drink blood?’ She snickered. ‘I beg your pardon, Mother.’ You rolled your eyes and a grin escaped your lips. The both of you walked towards the nurses office but on your way you saw him standing at the end of the hallway, his eyes filled with concern as the blood trickled down from your hand to the floor. Leaving trails of blood on the ground.

‘Mio Dio.’  The thick Italian accent of Mr. Auditore filled the corridors as he sprinted towards the two ladies. ‘Elise, what happened?’ Mr. Auditore asked as he switched his gaze between you and Elise. ‘(Y/N) has caught the ball, but with her face instead of her hands,’  You cringed at the words that sounded a bit innapropriate. ‘She caught the balls with her face? Can my mind interpret it more innapropriate then it already is?’ You asked yourself. 

Mr. Auditore grinned at you, as if he understood why you were cringing. You felt a little part of you die by his understanding. ‘Now he will think of me as a pervert. Great!’  

‘Elise, you can go back and inform the teacher that I will take care of her.’ Without hesitation she left you two alone, smirking at you. You blushed heavily as Mr. Auditore pretended not to see Elise’s facial expression.

He rested his big hands on each of your shoulder, leading you to the nurses office. His hands felt warm against the fabric of your P.E clothing ; a white t-shirt that was pretty see trough, showing the black bra visibly you wore underneath, and a red short with white lines adorning the sides and the hem of the short itself. 

He opened the door of the nurses office and led you inside, closing the door behind him. ‘Where is the nurse?’ You asked. You turned around. ‘She is sick, signorina. Now sit down.’ You obeyed him and sat down as he was ruffling through the freezer for an icepack. You replayed the sound of his voice a few times in your head. His deep, husky voice calling you signorina. Did the other girls also get the opportunity to be called a signorina? You secretly hoped he didn’t, but who where you to fool yourself with such a lie. You had the urge to ask him that. But you didn’t. It would be too embaressing if he thought that you felt affection for him. You only met hem a few months ago. But still you couldn’t explain the way he made you feel by doing his acts of kindness or the worry in his eyes when something bad occured. The way he talks about his passions like no boy could and the way he appears to be so... experienced. 

But you abruptly shot your head back into reality when Mr. Auditore snapped his fingers in front of your eyes. Holding the icepack and a few tissues in his other hand. ‘And again you drifted away. You do that a lot you know,’ You mumbled a little sorry before he handed the tissues over. You rubbed the blood of your hands and cleaned your nose, lips and anything that was stained with the blood.

‘I sometimes wonder what you are thinking about.’ He said shaking his head while grinning. ‘It’s nothing special really. Rather the regular day dreaming.’ You pinched the soft part of your nose and held your head back as you took the icepack from his hands. Your cold fingers slightly brushing his warm ones. 

‘Regular day dreaming, huh?’ He repeated. ‘Is that why you are always in such deep thought. Like you are in a deep sleep.’ You grinned a little, holding the pack against your nose bridge. ‘Tell me, is it a boy that has conquers your mind?’ You were surprised by how confident he was. His voice contained a hint of interest.

He saw that you were struggling for seeking an answer he quickly appologised. ‘Forgive me, signorina. It was not appriopriate for me to ask.’ He waved his hand in the air as if it was to erase the question that had left his lips and lingered in the air. He rested his back against the desk next to you.

After a long time you spoke: ‘If I am honest. There is someone that has conquered my mind, my sleep, my heart.’ You swallowed and felt your cheeks heating up. ‘Why did I had to express so much feelings along my words?’ You scolded yourself. What had made you thunder-struck was the fact that Mr. Auditore looked as if he was in thought. A hint of dissapointment was written on his face. 

***

You still couldn’t help to feel jealous everytime you busted a student or even a teacher drooling over Mr. Auditore. You were foolish if you denied his handsomeness. And that was the reason why you became distant to him. You didn’t want your last year in school to be wasted by dreaming and obsessing over a teacher that probably had a wife and childeren. But that didn’t kept you from stealing glances and staring at him, admiring the things he does even if it is against your priorities.

Just like now. He was talking to a group of female students who all tried their best to look seductive as possible. Oh how you had the urge to gag. Mr. Auditore had his arms crossed while laughing along with the females. One of them bit their lip while the other whirled her hair around her finger, trying to attract the male teacher. 

You kept your burning gaze switching between the girls and the handsome teacher. Every tiny laugh, snicker, or grin of those girls made you clutch your hands around your open book even more tighter than before. But the fire of jealousy in your eyes died down when Mr. Auditore Busted you staring. His eyes wandered to your book and then to your eyes, giving you a smile. You gave a faint smile before burying your head in your book, your face red of shame.

But shortly afterwards you couldn’t resist the urge to look at him on more time before focusing on your book, or rather the book he gave you. You sneakily looked up at him again, only to meet his eyes and locking them. Your heart quickened it’s pace and the adrenaline rushed through your whole body. It felt intense, but you didn’t dare to look away. 

‘It’s wrong (Y/N). He is your teacher. There is no chemistry, there never was. You just intensify every moment together because of how blinded you are.’ 

The bell rang, making you break the connection with his amber eyes and sighed deeply before you closed your book and clutched it against your chest, walking off to your next class. Alas! It was literature. You felt uncomfortable walking near him because of how intense the stare off was just a moment ago. You quickened your pace to the classroom so you wouldn’t be confronted by him. But, you could’t keep running away and hiding before his claws of worry would grab your flesh. He wanted to know why you were so distant towards him. But every time you two had a conversation you tried to speak as less as possible, hoping the conversation would end soon. 

You went into the classroom and took the seat at the back. How long would this carry on? When Mr. Auditore walked into the classroom, he glanced your way and you saw that he was a bit surprised by your choice of seat. This was very unusual for you. In iterature you were one of the students that would sit at the front row, so he would choose you and listen to your answers. As said, it was unusual for you. 

It felt like time was feeling bold and went at the pace of a snail to annoy you. During the whole lesson you either stared out of the window or read your book underneath the table. Even though Mr. Auditore saw how you didn’t focused on his lesson, he didn’t ask you to pay attention. 

You were glad that the bell rung and dismissed you all. Or so you thought. ‘Signorina (Y/N),’ You reluctantly turned away from the door to look at him. ‘I want you to stay for a few moments.’ The little lamb has been caught by the claws of the lion. You saw a few students raise their eyebrows when he called you signorina as if it was the first time they heard him speaking Italian. 

The last student left and Mr. Auditore closed the door. He turned around to look at you. His eyes were full with concern and confusion. ‘I have noticed that you do nt pay attention to my last lessons. You either way drifted back into dreamland or you were reading the book I gave you,’ You were nailed to the ground. Yu knew that he would’ve confronted you with in one day, but you never thought about what you would say. You were too focused on distancing your bond. ‘I thought you promised me to not drift away’ you didn’t know what to say next. Your mouth felt dry and you fumbled with your sleeve because of the nervousness. ‘I’m sorry for that. I will not drift away during your lessons. I promise, trully.’ He nodded his head and silently repeated the word ‘Sorry’ but it was audible for you to hear. ‘Sorry doesn’t explain why you have been acting so distant lately.’ You tried to look innocent. ‘What do you mean, sir?’ 

‘Oh stop playing (Y/N). You know what is going on and as your teacher I am concerned about you and your education.’ He hesitated when he said that he was only your teacher. You kept quiet. ‘Is there anything that has happened in your private life? Is there something that you deal with? You can always tell me, (Y/N). I am trying my best to understand your problem so I can help you.’ You felt how your heart melted by his kindness. You realized how foolish you were. All of this was because you denied the feelings you had for him. You foolish, little girl. 

‘I am not dealing with anything, it’s kind off silly.’

‘What seems silly for others may be difficult for you.’ His eyes pierced yours. You felt yourself drowning in the pool of his honey-coloured eyes. You bit your lips. 

‘Is it because of that boy.’ He said, almost whispering. His hot breath caressed your cheek, and that was when you realized how close he was. You nodded. ‘yes.’ You whispered. He placed his hands on your cheek and sought permission in your eyes. His hands felt rough against your soft cheek, Your face fitted in his palm. ‘What a foolish boy.’ your permission was given by not shoving his hands away, so he slowly came closer with his face until his soft lips were pressed against yours. It begin softly. But the longer you kissed, the more passionate it became. His free hand grabbed your thigh and placed you upon his desk. He bit your lower lip, letting a small moan escape from your mouth. His warm and humid tongue stroked your lower lip, asking for permission to enter your mouth. You opened your mouth and your tongues dance with each other as he pressed you closer to him. Your legs rested around his waist as his chest and the growing bulge in his pants pressed against you. The feeling of how exited he was made your underwear leak. His hand trailed from your thigh up yo your lower stomach, reaching underneath your blouse while he began kissing your neck. He went lower with his mouth until he reached your collarbone, with every kiss he sucked and bit on your skin. 

But you two were nailed in your positions as you heard footsteps coming towards the classroom. Dissapointend, you jumped of the desk and flattened your clothing with your hand before hiding the bite marks with your hair. 

The door swung open, revaling Mrs. Campbell. ‘(Y/N), what are you still doing here? School finished 10 minutes ago.’ Mrs Campbell switched her gaze from you to Mr Auditore in suspicion. ‘Well, she wrote a story and wanted me to judge and criticize it. She is pretty good I must say.’ Mrs Campbell nodded.

‘Okay then. But Ezio, make sure to come to the meeting on time. The principle asked met to look for you.’ You felt a bit uncomfortable and slipped away. but before your presence vanished you gave Ezio a wink before slipping off. Satisfied with the blush on his face.

[themummersfolly]

@ardenrosegarden I think you’ll like this. Non-sexual bedsharing, hurt/comfort. Non-POV character is male, but who he is and all details about the narrator are left intentionally vague. CWs for descriptions of injuries and mentions of previous violence.

Story after cut.

“I tried to warn you.”

“Never said I didn’t believe you.” I stumble over the uneven pavement and grunt in pain. He pauses, adjusts his grip to support me better.

“You knew this would happen.”

“Worth it.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t beat you to death.”

“I did what I had to do.”

I wait for the lecture to start, but it never comes. If he’s angry at me, he’s set it aside. We reach the front steps and he helps me up, lets me lean on him while he opens the door. He’s warm and solid. Unshakable.

Inside, he bolts the door with one hand. “We need to wash your wounds.”

That’s going to hurt. I already hurt. “Don’t think I can do it by myself.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” His voice is unexpectedly kind.

He settles me on the couch in the front room, draws the blinds, helps me out of my coat. I whimper as the motion jars my bruised ribcage and torn muscles. He hushes me and kneels to undo my bootlaces.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“Hmm?”

“For coming to get me.”

I can’t decipher the look on his face. It’s too warm to be pity.

I lay back and close my eyes. After a moment I hear him in the kitchen, running water, pulling things out of cabinets. I must doze off at some point, because when I open my eyes he’s pulled a stool and a side table up in front of me, with a basin and the big first aid kit. He glances at me apologetically.

“We need to get you out of those clothes.”

He’s right. I stink of sweat and piss and that one asshole’s tobacco juice. I try to sit up and fall back again, whimpering. Now that the adrenaline’s worn off, cold and injury have made my muscles stiff.

“Hush.” His hand brushes my face, carefully avoiding the bruises. The cushions dip as he kneels on the edge of the couch, leaning over me. “You’ll have to forgive me...”

“S’okay.” After what I went through an hour ago, you’d think I’d shy away from letting anyone else put their hands on me. But this is different. He’s on my side. He was always on my side.

We manage to peel off the button-down I’m wearing like a jacket, but under that I’m wearing a t-shirt, and I can’t lift my arms. He fishes in the first aid kit and pulls out the trauma sheers.

“Sorry about this.”

He cuts away my t-shirt and jeans, tossing them in a pile by the door and pulling a blanket over me as he works. Something in the back of my mind frets as he starts on my underwear. My need for medical attention overrules it.

Once I’m naked, he wrings out a rag from the basin and starts examining the cuts and bruises on my face. Strands of my hair are caught in the dried blood. I flinch when he tugs at them. Carefully, he sponges away blood and dirt. The hot water stings, but it helps. He pulls back the blanket a little at a time, washing my body and examining for injuries and evidence of broken bones. My ribs are broken, he says. I’ve got a lot of bruising. As he finishes each section, he covers me again with the blanket.

When I’m more or less clean, he puts his arms behind my shoulders and helps me lay down.

“How does this feel? Can you breathe like this?”

“Mm-hm.” This feels better, but the effort of changing position has me dizzy. “We got any water?”

He steps away, and when he comes back he lifts my head and holds a glass to my lips. I drink down most of it and feel better.

“I got you some ice.” Something crinkles: a gallon bag full of ice cubes. He lays it across my ribs, outside the blanket. I flinch. After a moment the pain subsides a little. A pill bottle rattles and he slides his hand under my head again.

“Here, drink these down.”

I open my eyes a crack. “Are those left over from my wisdom teeth?”

“You know better than me. They were in the back of your cabinet.”

“Ugh. Forgot I had those. Was supposed to get rid of them.”

“Good thing you didn’t. Here, this is the amount the bottle says to take. You’ll heal better if you’re not in so much pain. Believe me,” he adds, and I do. I let him put the pills in my mouth and swallow them with a sip of water. He’s dabbing ointment on my face when the medicine kicks in and I drift away.

When I wake up the icepack is gone, but he’s still there, in an armchair pulled up to the end of the couch, reading a book. He looks up and sees me awake.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” It’s true; I still feel like I shouldn’t be in one piece, but the pain is mostly in the background now. “I need to pee. Can you- I don’t think I can get there on my own.”

He sets down his book and grabs a second blanket. It takes our combined efforts to get me up off the couch and into a standing position, and it’s still impossible to stand fully upright. He helps me into the hallway, keeping me wrapped in the blankets, and holds the second one up as a screen when I’m finally sitting on the pot. When I’m done, we pause before beginning the return journey.

“Can I make a request?” I mumble against his shoulder.

“Of course.”

“Can I sleep in the bed?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s not too far?”

“Not for me. And I can carry you if need be.” I can hear his smile.

We make it to the bedroom, and he tucks me under the quilt.

“Do you need more medicine?”

“No. I’m good.” Exhaustion is making my vision swim. My hand is sticking out from under the quilt on the side. He takes it in his and rubs circles on the back, gently. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused.

“You can stay here,” I say. “You don’t have to sleep in the chair.” Or on the couch, which probably still smells like an ass-kicking.

“Are you sure? It seems... improper.”

“Cause I’m naked?”

He nods. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Can’t be uncomfortable if I’m asleep.” My eyelids keep drooping. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna be alone...”

He leans over me and kisses my forehead. He smells nice. “Then I’ll stay.”

He crawls under the quilt on the other side, leaving the sheet between me and him. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, distant enough to maintain a boundary. If I were in better shape I would roll onto my side, mold myself against his body. It hurts to move, so I stay put. Instead, he folds his frame around me, warm and solid, one arm beneath his head as he watches over me. I feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. Will he let me lie this close to him when I’m healed? I hope so. I sink into the warmth, and sleep.

[vernonfielding]

No pain no gain

Missing scene fic from Jimmy Jabs 2! This is shameless hurt/comfort (and some mild Jake/Amy Being Serious). Thank you to the lovely and super smart @fezzle and @feeisamarshmallow for the fantastic beta!! Title is more Bash Brothers (from Let’s Bash). 

Read on AO3.

First, Amy runs up to Jake and throws her arms around his neck and kisses him soundly, right in front of the entire squad and the staff and the civilians mingling all around the bullpen. She kisses him until he’s breathless and she can feel the too-fast flutter of his pulse in his neck (which could be from the kiss or the adrenaline, impossible to know).

Second, Amy pulls back and grabs his hand and drags him up, arm circling his waist when he stumbles a little. She takes him straight down the garage, to their sensible and very boring Champagne-colored sedan, and drives him to the closest emergency room.

It’s busy for a weekday afternoon. Every seat is taken, mostly by people coughing behind surgical masks or clutching barf bags and sweating in a way that makes Amy’s own stomach turn a little. A woman in a chair just behind them is pressing a bloody towel into the palm of one hand. A little boy two chairs over has an icepack pressed to his nose and blood all over his white T-shirt.

The nurse at the registration desk glances up as Amy approaches with Jake. The nurse’s eyes flit down to the NYPD logo on their matching shirts and she says, “Injured in the line of duty?”

She’s holding a pen in one hand, poised over a clipboard, and Amy knows her answer now will determine the rest of their day: If Jake was hurt on duty they get a free pass back to the ER. If she says Jake was competing in the Nine-Nine’s version of American Gladiators-

“Yes,” Amy says. “My husband was on duty. He fell.” It’s not really a lie.

The nurse hits a buzzer, and five minutes later Jake’s in a bed, plastic wristband on one arm and blood pressure cuff on the other. The adrenaline’s fully kicked in and he’s gone all pale and sweaty, his blood pressure is alarmingly high, and he can’t stop fidgeting when the nurse tries to put an oximeter clip on one finger. Amy feels a twist of guilt in her gut and chews on a thumbnail.

+++

Amy loves Jake. Full stop. No reservations, no conditions, no exceptions. She loves every part of him -- his kind and generous heart, his ridiculous curls and goofball grin, his exceptional detective brain and his remarkably robust digestive system (given his eating habits). She loves his recent addiction to corn nuts, and she loves that his new favorite beverage is boba tea from the shop around the corner from their apartment. She loves that he didn’t learn the months of the year until he was 12 and that he activates his animatronic fish at least once a week, just to make sure it’s still “alive.”

She loves that he’s going to be the father of her child. She knows he’ll be incredible -- she feels it in her heart and her bones and her blood and and her brain and all the spaces in between. 

(And she still really, really loves his butt.)

But damnit if the man isn’t absolutely infuriating sometimes.

“So, what happened here?” says the doctor, pushing aside the curtain at the foot of Jake’s bed. The doctor is very tall and her hair is pulled into a tight braid that falls halfway down her back. Amy’s glad she prepared for this moment.

“My husband fell out of a ceiling,” she says, throwing just the right amount of sheepishness into her tone. “Also, I used an EpiPen on him.”

The thing is, this is almost too easy, striking the right balance between telling the truth and fudging the embarrassing details in these situations. Amy smiles pleasantly at the doctor when she raises a questioning eyebrow.

“What is he allergic to?” the doctor says, looking between Amy and Jake.

“Bees,” Amy says, “but he wasn’t stung. I had to give him the adrenaline so he could break down a door.”

“I see,” the doctor says, though clearly she doesn’t. But she refrains from asking follow-up questions, which is all that matters. “You know that’s not really how EpiPens work.”

Amy does not tell the doctor that, in fact, the EpiPen worked exactly as they’d hoped. Instead she shrugs and says, “We didn’t have a lot of other options.”

“Well.” The doctor frowns and looks Jake up and down, and makes a note on the tablet she’s carried in with her. “Let’s take a look.”

The nurse who got him settled took off Jake’s sweatshirt, but he’s otherwise still in his tactical uniform, boots and all. Amy notices there’s a bruise blossoming along his jawline and another high up on his forehead. It’s amazing that he didn’t get any cuts or badly broken bones when he fell, but she suspects his ribs are bruised, at least. She hopes it’s nothing more serious, and she recalls one morning years ago, when he came to work the day after hurting himself so badly after chasing a perp through traffic and falling through the open sunroof of a car. He’d insisted to everyone that he was fine, when he clearly wasn’t; at the time, Amy had brushed it off as typical Jake: brash, impulsive, foolish and still weirdly endearing.

She would have said earlier today that Jake wasn’t like that anymore -- that he wouldn’t participate in the Jimmy Jabs, of all things, if he was truly injured. But after everything that he’s said and done today, she’s not sure that’s the case. And anyway, she was pushing him, telling him they couldn’t lose their ridiculous (boring) car to a ridiculous bet in a ridiculous game.

Jake hisses when the doctor bends over and prods gently at his left side. She lifts his T-shirt and Amy winces at the mottled blue and purple bruising. His shoulder is similarly bruised, and swollen, and Jake can’t reach his arm up over his head when the doctor asks. 

“I’d like to get some X-rays,” the doctor says. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” Jake says. He’s gritting his teeth and has wrapped an arm around his middle.

“Did you hit it in the fall?” the doctor says, taking a penlight out of her coat pocket.

“I don’t think so,” Jake says. The doctor shines the light in his eyes and Jake frowns but endures it. She asks his name, if he knows where he is and what year it is -- all the usual stuff.

“The headache is probably from the EpiPen,” the doctor says. “But we’ll keep an eye on it.”

+++

The doctor leaves and a nurse returns with a gown and offers to help Jake change. Amy says she’s got it.

“You’re a mess,” she says, quietly, as she takes off his shoes.

She helps him strip off his pants and they both pause to look over the bruised bumps on his legs. A particularly angry-looking lump the size of a baseball is forming on his right thigh, and when Amy brushes the spot with a finger the skin feels hot. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks and looks away, tugging the pants off his feet when they get stuck.

“I’m sorry,” Jake says, so soft she hardly catches it.

Amy sighs and helps him sit up. She peels off the blood pressure cuff, and slides his T-shirt as carefully as she can over his stiff arms, up and over his head. She unfolds the gown the nurse left them and helps him pull it on, then takes a seat on the bed, at his hip.

“I’m not mad at you for getting hurt,” she says.

“I know I was being reckless-”

“Jake, last month you climbed onto an overturned wastebasket on top of a skateboard so you could hang the new curtains in our bedroom,” Amy says. “And you know what my first thought was, when I saw you up there like two seconds from falling through the window?”

“That you married a moron?” Jake says glumly.

“No -- I thought you were right, that the teal stripes match our bedspread really well,” Amy says. “Don’t get me wrong, I also wondered why you hadn’t just climbed on a chair like a normal person. But I wasn’t mad about it, and I’m not mad about this now.”

Jake looks so relieved, his face going soft and smiley, that she almost feels bad when she takes his hand in hers and adds, “But I’m still pretty pissed that you bet the car. Our car.”

+++

Amy hated Jake for the first two weeks after she started at the Nine-Nine. After everything she’d been through at the Six-Four, Jake came across as just another fucking bro-cop, with his dumb, disarming smile and flirting with witnesses and constant boasting about his detective skillz-with-a-Z. He never crossed any lines with her, but she didn’t peg him as an ally, either.

Then he’d said something, something that should have been totally ordinary but wasn’t.

A man in a suit had walked up to Jake’s desk in the middle of a quiet afternoon, just Jake and Amy and Rosa in the bullpen, and he’d said, “What’s up with all the chicks working here, dude?”

Jake, who’d been leaning far back in his chair, feet up on his desk, eating a microwave burrito for lunch, had said without pause, “Dude, they’re women, and they’re detectives. Now go away.”

They’d never found out if the man was a witness or a lawyer or there to report a crime -- he’d just stared at Jake for a moment, cheeks turned bright red, and walked right out. After that, everything sort of tilted a few degrees for Amy. Jake was still immature and boorish and flaky, but he also became someone she thought she could trust. 

In the emergency room, Jake’s palm in her hand is clammy, and when she presses her thumb into his wrist she can feel his pulse still racing from the adrenaline shot, but maybe also because she’s made him anxious.

“I know, the bet was dumb,” Jake says, but Amy can tell by the edge of exasperation in his tone that he’s thinking they’ve been through this already and he thought they were good.

“Yeah, but you know what really pissed me off?” Amy says. “Hitchcock.”

“Hitchcock? You’re mad about Hitchcock?” Jake says. “But he’s always an ass.”

Amy sighs and pulls Jake’s hand into her lap. “I know, but this time you were kind of an ass too, babe. He was so dismissive toward me, and whatever, it’s Hitchcock. But you went right along with it, and that hurt. It really sucked.”

She can feel Jake’s gaze on her face, and Amy looks up to find him wide-eyed and appalled. She debated all day whether she should say something about how that had felt, because honestly, Jake is good. She doesn’t believe he needs to be reminded that women -- and especially his own wife -- should be treated with respect. But at the same time, she thinks he’d be pissed if he knew she was annoyed and not telling him. 

It’s obvious that this particular hit has landed. He looks away from Amy and bites his lower lip, and she knows he’s feeling devastated. Literally nothing wounds Jake more than knowing he’s hurt or let down someone he cares about.

“Jake-”

“I am so sorry, Ames,” he says, eyes locked on the hand that Amy isn’t holding. “God, I’m such a jerk.”

“You’re not,” Amy says, and when Jake shakes his head, she adds, “I mean, okay, you were jerk-ish. But look, you were freaking out a little and not thinking clearly and it probably didn’t even occur to you how rude that whole conversation was.”

“That just makes it worse!” Jake says.

Amy frowns to herself, because- yeah, it kind of does. “Fine. You were a jerk.”

“And then you had to spend the whole day helping me win,” Jake says, “when you totally could’ve won the whole thing.”

“Well, obviously,” Amy says. “It should be noted that I had fun today, babe. I don’t get to goof around like that as much as I used to, and you know how much I love a competition.

“It’s just- I would have preferred to skip the Jimmy Jabs entirely and go to my seminar.”

Jake winces. “Yeah, I’m the worst.”

Amy laughs at that, because it’s so far from the truth. “Jake, I love you, so much. But you’re not perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes, even kind of shitty ones.”

“Ames-”

“Also,” she says, talking over him, “I stabbed you with an EpiPen so you could win the world’s dumbest obstacle race. I think that makes us even.”

Which is exactly when their nurse reappears.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” she says, and helps Jake into a wheelchair to take him for X-rays.

+++

Nothing is broken, and Jake’s head is fine.

The doctor makes them wait around awhile anyway, and after five hours in the ER the adrenaline is finally wearing off and the pain pills are kicking in and Jake is dozing. Amy sits in a chair one of the orderlies brought in, filling out crosswords, and secretly she’s loving all of the uninterrupted downtime.

It’s long past dark by the time they’re free. Jake shuffles to the car and it’s obvious he’s still in a lot of pain despite the Norco. He grunts as he falls into the passenger seat and Amy helps him with the seatbelt when he struggles to reach across his own chest.

Amy sends him straight to bed, and while the soup is heating up she texts Terry that Jake won’t be in the next day. She thinks he’ll be okay at home alone, but wonders if she should use a sick day too. Except they really should be saving those up now.

Jake’s passed out again when she carries dinner to the bedroom. She sets the bowl of soup and the glass of orange soda on his bedside table and nudges him awake. He’s still pale and his eyes are red with exhaustion, blinking up at her slowly, and she swears more bruises have bloomed on his face in the 15 minutes since she saw him.

“I’m a mess,” Jake says, and she thinks he’s deliberately echoing her words from earlier. He sounds tired and pathetic.

She sits beside him on the bed and runs a hand through his hair, nails scratching a little against his scalp. Jake’s eyes flutter closed, and she leans forward and kisses each eyebrow, and the outer corners of his eyes, and the tip of his nose. She kisses him on the mouth. His lips are chapped and the stubble on his cheeks tickles her own smooth skin.

Amy pulls back and Jake opens his eyes, looking up at her with something like wonder.

“You are,” she says. “But you’re my mess. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”